


Blankets the Night

by completetheory



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Trans Character, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Player Characters, Other, Plothole Fill, Sympathetic to LaCroix, Sympathetic to Nines Rodriguez, Sympathetic to literally everyone except Smiling Jack, Transgender, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2020-10-19 15:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 58,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20659631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completetheory/pseuds/completetheory
Summary: A canon AU branch where the Fledgling is able to warn LaCroix that the imposter at Grout's mansion was an obvious bootleg Nines Rodriguez. This has initially small, but increasingly chaotic consequences for all involved, culminating in a very different ending for the early 2000s Kindred of Los Angeles. Later chapters will touch on major canon events, and there will be heavy shipping and heavier politics.





	1. A Little Suspicion (Is A Lot Healthy)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadScientific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadScientific/gifts).

Almost two weeks had elapsed since the one night stand in which Sunny had died, and was reborn anew into a world they were only just beginning to understand. Within that time, they'd become a hotel exorcist, chosen a side in the Camarilla-Sabbat war in order to repay the debt owed to the Prince of Los Angeles, and liked the idea of the Camarilla enough to sneak onto a ship (exciting!). 

After that, LaCroix seemed so impressed with Sunday's ability to sneak in and out of places undetected that they were then asked to go check on the Malkavian Primogen, which seemed simple enough, but was immensely complicated, instead. 

"From what I was able to piece together, not only was Dr. Grout kidnapping and torturing kine, but he was also contacting a vampire hunter named Bach. Grout was dead, staked and restrained, when I got there, I believe. I didn't perform a forensic analysis, but from his tapes, he didn't sound put-together enough to have done a disappearing act." Sunday reported, standing straight backed in front of the desk. 

The Prince was shocked, "Bach. I know him, yes. And I agree with your assessment of Grout's - unfortunately - deteriorating mental state. So Grout was murdered by Bach." 

Sunday shook their head, "I don't think so. From what he was saying, it sounds as though he got there a little after me, and didn't know Grout was dead." 

"Then who?" LaCroix sat back, "It is no small crime in our society to assassinate a Primogen. The Camarilla is inclined to discourage it." 

The Nosferatu was already beginning to understand - and appreciate - why Tung thought so highly of the Ventrue. Seeing Sebastian already overstressed and having to bring more problems up to the tower wasn't fun, but having the problems without a supportive or functioning Primogen unit, based on what Sunny had gleaned already, had to be incredibly taxing. Sunday was grateful for the little things they could do, but didn't know enough yet about how to help repair the big things. LaCroix had opened up a bit about how stressful it was, and Sunday had been supportive. When they had floated their nonbinary pronouns, LaCroix said she'd appreciate if Sunday returned the favor and used 'she', while also practicing Nosferatu discretion. 

About the murder, though. "I don't know. But I plan to find out." 

LaCroix's lips twitched involuntarily into a smile, "You are a credit to your clan, then. Are there no other suspects?" 

Sunday's eyes wandered the room idly, noting as ever that dagger with the ankh design, and that the papers they'd retrieved from the Dane were untouched from when LaCroix requested they leave them. "Smiling Jack?" They suggested. 

The Prince squinted at the Fledgling, "Why do you say that?" 

"He's had nothing but awful things to say about the Camarilla since I met him. He has that thing vampires can do when they move fast?" 

"Celerity." LaCroix provided. 

Sunday looked a little concerned, "I can't prove anything, I only had a few moments to look at the body, and I don't know who set the fire. It would be logistically challenging, if not impossible, for Grout to have done it. Probably not an accident during a struggle, the only stuff that looked knock-over-flammable was in the medical area, which I passed in order to get to Grout's and isn't where the fire broke out. Bach _shouldn't_ have set the fire, because it puts a time limit on his murder attempts, and people can escape in the confusion, like I did. He didn't fight me, even though," Sunday gestured to their own face in willful acceptance of how obvious it was that they could be identified as Kindred. 

"You're fortunate; Bach is deadly. His whole family line have reality-bending abilities based on how strongly they believe in their murderous God." LaCroix steepled her fingers, "If our suspects involve those who dislike the Camarilla's presence, then that would also encompass Isaac Abrams and Nines Rodriguez, who also have Celerity... I don't see the Nosferatu Primogen's motivation, nor Strauss'." 

"I met with Nines outside Grout's mansion," The Nosferatu turned away, "I didn't mention it at first because it... seemed wrong." 

LaCroix watched Sunny for a beat, "Wrong how? Sunday... Are you sure it was Nines?" 

"No. I'm not. That's how. It sounded hollow... nothing like Nines at all. And that Nosferatu who turned - who _Embraced_ me, sorry? They looked like someone else at first. Is that something a lot of Kindred can do?" 

For some reason, LaCroix looked ... ill. "Yes. I need to convene with the Primogen and discuss what you've told me. Keep yourself available, we may need you to provide more detail, if there's anything you can remember, or if they have further questions. Until the Ankaran sarcophagus is safely in the museum, we can take no action, so I have nothing else for you to do." 

Sunday's ears drooped, from the way LaCroix's expression changed, how their information was unhelpful, at best, confusing, muddled. But they hadn't known what to look for. "I'm actually willing to say it probably wasn't Nines." Sunday elaborated, but that only made LaCroix look _more_ worried. The Nosferatu took a step back, looked to the door, then at the lonely Ventrue in the chair, shadowed only by the protection of her Sheriff. 

"I'll keep an eye on my emails. Keep in touch if I can help more." Sunday said earnestly, and was gratified by the way LaCroix's expression noticeably softened. Then they was gone, heading down to the special elevator that LaCroix had taken the time to have installed so that the Nosferatu and the Nagloper could come and go without disturbing mortal happenings. Sunday wound their way through the tunnels, deep in thought and heading almost unconsciously toward the Chantry that Strauss had invited them to come visit. 

So far, Sunday had offered their assistance to almost everyone who asked for it. They helped LaCroix because even the Anarch leader seemed to believe Sunday owed LaCroix a life debt, they helped the Anarchs because, while finding them crass, offputting and somewhat bullheaded, it was obvious they were shellshocked from the Kuei-Jin war and without means to repay assistance, largely... and they had helped Strauss with the spreading of diseases in the city, finding the Tremere soft spoken and pleasant. The door opened to them, as it had before, and they wandered the hallways before coincidentally finding themself at the sitting room door. It smelled of mahogany and sweet burning candles or incense, and Sunday knocked before entering, finding Strauss on the couch with a handful of texts beside himself. 

"Strauss? Do you have some time to talk? If you're not busy." The Nosferatu lingered by the door, but the Tremere closed his book at once, looking up as if out of a deep fugue. 

"Please, sit, neonate. What can I help you with?" 

It was not with too fine a point that Strauss indicated listening **was** a favor, or at least contained an offer of assistance. But Sunday was getting used to this as just the way that Kindred society worked. Very few individuals of any clan seemed to want to do anything with no expectation of return. Only Nines, so far, had truly wanted nothing back for helping Sunday, and that was still with the possibility of swaying them to the Anarch cause. (Well, Nines and Jack, but there was something wrong about how friendly Jack was. Sunday felt guilty for casting aspersions without proof.)

Sunday described the scenario at Grout's mansion with earnest detail, including their observations of Nines as a monosyllabic, concerned individual who didn't seem suited to the role, and Strauss confirmed LaCroix's answer that yes, there were 'many means' by which a diverse array of Clan disciplines might conceal themselves. 

"How many?" 

"At least half of the Camarilla can do such things. Not shapeshifting, necessarily. It could be as simple as a Malkavian planting a suggestion that you remembered the face of Nines, in place of whoever was actually there. And outside the Camarilla, there are other groups with similar abilities. Sunday, did you remember seeing anything on 'Nines' clothing? Residue of any kind?" 

Sunday thought back. "No...?" 

"Did he smell of blood, or smoke, or show signs of injury?" 

"No." This with more certainty. 

Strauss' logic was relentless, slow, and surgical. "Can you think of any reason that the Anarch upstart should have any business in being at Grout's mansion, other than his murder?" 

For a third time, Sunday shook their head, deep in thought. It felt as though they were getting somewhere but also - getting nowhere, at the same time. But Strauss didn't seem to share that opinion. "You have ingratiated yourself with their sect, Sunday. You are aware of the flippant, violent philosophies which the Anarchs espouse against Camarilla presence here. Is it possible that you simply don't _want_ to have seen Nines Rodriguez in a compromising position?" 

"It is possible." Sunday looked earnest, "I know you can't tell me Tremere secrets, and I respect that, but is there anything you do for the Camarilla that involves truth potions? Magic like that?" 

Strauss was astonished by the question, and took some moments to answer, employing silence as his ally in the matter of handling the - outspoken but very courteous Nosferatu. Finally, he indicated, "There are methods such as you describe. They require a donation of a pint of blood, belonging to the individual being questioned, and their presence. Neither, I think, you would be likely to acquire from Mr. Rodriguez. The Tremere have a reputation among the lesser clans of abusing our authority and abilities." 

"I think you're nice." Sunday said, impulsively, though they didn't know enough to know if the reputation was deserved, the Tremere were one of the few clans Tung seemed wholly negative about. Perhaps he'd had a bad experience, or knew more than he was telling. "But I understand why Nines might be slow to trust, at least at first. Taking a whole year not trusting is kind of extreme, given that you weren't violent against them, though. Or Prince LaCroix, too. I think - the Camarilla was holding back under LaCroix, when they could have destroyed the Anarchs." 

Strauss folded his legs. "Not destroyed. I would have been satisfied to flex more power against them and demonstrate the futility of their opposition. But LaCroix..." He shook his head, "Too young. Too ... _forgiving._ I am concerned, as you know, with Los Angeles' future, and the political instability is extreme _without_ Grout's murder." 

Sunday digested that opinion, knowing that everyone they spoke to was biased - knowing they themself was biased! - but happy to indulge everyone to a point, and try to reach the closest possible objective truth with the information available. Strauss didn't seem frightened, or even bothered by the prospect of assassination. The Chantry was much safer as a stronghold than Grout's house: the front door wasn't even locked. That meant the abandoned hotel had better security! But there was something really wrong with Grout, he hadn't been thinking clearly and hadn't trusted anyone to help him. Strauss also didn't appear particularly quick to trust, but he did value information, and clearly there were wheels turning that Sunday could sense but not quite see. 

They sighed, getting no closer internally to an answer. Nines had been kind to them. Grout had probably deserved retaliation, from what he'd been doing to the kine and what he was about to do to a different Kindred, sell them out to someone? _A Faustian bargain?_ Maybe he hadn't deserved murder, but it was hard to say. 

"I think Grout was talking to a vampire hunter to try to kill you or Prince LaCroix. One who showed up ready to kill Grout, too." Sunday lay across the couch, digging claws unhappily into the boiled leather BDSM restraint of their armored bicep. "It's a mess. You don't want to tell me what to do, but can you advise me at all?"

Strauss opened his hands, a curtailed shrug, "At the moment, I believe you are doing what you ought to be. Asking questions, paying attention, and remaining alert to your own opinions clouding your judgment. It is unfortunate that Grout's mansion is destroyed, with no witnesses or evidence available to us for analysis, but before Prince LaCroix commands a bloodhunt, the Primogen must allow it. There will be discussion." At Sunday's worried look, he continued, "A bloodhunt is not _necessarily_ a death sentence. The Kindred in question can leave the city limits, and is legally allotted until midnight to do so. While it is an open invitation to some Kindred to perform acts of violence against the individual, in reality it more often serves as an exile." 

The Nosferatu buried their face in their arms, still thinking hard. Manipulation was not their forte, but they liked people and gave a lot of thought to why people might do what they did. The quiet crackling of the fire was not uncomfortable either, warding off a chill without inducing a particular discomfort, and Sunday relaxed, permitting themself a few quiet moments. They felt Strauss' presence nearby as a comfort, regardless of how often they disagreed with the Tremere's soft opinions. 

"From what you've said, and in the absence of more certain proof, I would be slow to approve a bloodhunt against Nines Rodriguez." Strauss admitted. Apparently, as biased as he thought Sunday was, he was willing to credit their observations somewhat. That lightened their dessicated heart further, and they left in as good spirits as could be expected. They returned to Santa Monica to check on their haven, and happened to glance down the street toward 'Gimble's Prosthetics'. They'd called in the little basement of horrors to the police a few days ago, and Carson had left promising to arrange official involvement, but there were no signs that anything had happened since then, and Sunday was beginning to get anxious about it. If there weren't so many other things to do, they might have done a followup sooner, and investigated the building again, but all they expected to find were the bodies of McGee and Gimble, so they didn't. They stopped by Tung's hideout, but that too was empty, and, as it was dangerously close to sunup, retreated to the haven supplied to them by LaCroix. 

Outside, the mortal side of Santa Monica was just waking up, and Sunday fired off a quick email to Tung, asking for him to get into contact with them ASAP and discuss developments - too cautious to say explicitly what, even though they trusted the LaCroix Foundation secured internet to some degree... they could see how a hundred year old Kindred might get a little nervous. 

Exhaustion from the past few nights of activity caught up to them as the sun edged over the horizon, and they slipped off into merciful oblivion. 

They may not have slept quite so soundly, if they'd had all the facts.


	2. Tung Tied

Usually, an alliance with a Kindred in a domain away might as well be on the moon. 

Tung reflected on that, making slow progress through the sewers during the gloaming hours, while most younger Kindred were still asleep, and lamented his great number of useless contacts along the Pacific Coast. Even inward - Montrose, the Las Vegas Sheriff, not only owed Tung several minor favors but also liked him. Two hundred and seventy miles separated that assist, as well as the knowledge that Montrose had his own fires to put out. 

Tung was on his own. He dropped down further through the bowels of Hollywood's sewers, drawing up the cloak of obfuscation that confounded sentient eyes to his location. Rats could sustain him almost indefinitely, and his business was not so complex that he needed to linger. The Fledgling was working out almost as well as Knox Harrington, it turned out, and he couldn't have foreseen that. Little blips made the game stay interesting, and force Embraced Nosferatu tended to... extremes.

Either hating themselves, and sharing that wealth in further forced Embraces, centered around some human ideal of beauty, or radical acceptance, and a pleasant fall face-first into the world of body modifications, piercings, tattoos and leather bondage. The Nosferatu weren't that dissimilar from the Tzimisce, in some ways. 

Speaking of the Tzimisce, it was a timely reminder that the sewer system was not as friendly to wanderers in recent months. Tung had to be particularly careful at certain junctions - not to avoid murder by abominations - but to avoid detection from the cameras, monitored almost constantly by Mitnick. Tung liked Mitnick, and people he liked tended to stay ignorant of his _less-legal_ machinations, the better to keep them out of trouble. One couldn't confess to being an accomplice of a plot one knew nothing about. 

When he'd moved beyond the visible zone of Mitnick's cameras, he let the obfuscation drop and entered the warrens proper. It'd be nice if he could retrieve a data disk he'd 'misplaced', but that wasn't the sole reason he'd come. This was, foremost, an intel gathering mission. Tung stopped, listening, and then moved sideways into a storage area, crouching and waiting. Even more irritating than the potentially stolen disk was the need to creep and hide from his own Clan. This was not the way of it that he'd lovingly described to Sunny, not how it ought to be. He had the patience of his centuries, though. Presently, it was important to become better informed, to keep Knox away from the Warren, and to exit without being noticed. In that order.

The doorknob rattled, then swung open, and Tung melted again into the refuge of obscurity. _You don't see me._

Gary Golden, Nosferatu Primogen and nowhere near as 'creepy looking' as Bertram Tung but far more violently angry about it, rummaged through a few crates, muttering to himself. When he'd dug up a burner cellphone, he punched in a number that Tung wasn't in a position to see, waited for the rings, and then lounged against the nearby boxes. Tung stayed perfectly still, hardly able to believe his luck. It would have been a feat to enter Gary's quarters directly, but here he was, willing to have a conversation practically in the Warren's hallway. 

Tung suspected Gary's Childer made him flippant. With them subservient, and with Tung avoiding the place - and the new European Nosferatu 'going missing' within a few weeks of his arrival - Gary was used to being top dog, and not even fifty years into unlife. Nines Rodriguez was older than Gary Golden, for God's sake.

"Right, is this Bruno? I have a tidbit for you, and my price is low - as we discussed. The target's on its way to the museum as we speak. I have the license plate for the truck, but I won't give you that. It's your job not to make a scene, remember? Uphold the Masquerade! Hahaha. --Don't get testy. I'm being nice to you." 

Gary went on at length, gloating in a way that clued Tung in further that he was not accustomed to holding power over other Kindred often. _Bruno_ was Bruno Giovanni, if Tung knew anything, a not-terribly-discreet Kindred who'd been kicking around for these past few decades without success in America, and who was probably desperate for a boost. Anyone in the know understood that 'the target' was the Sarcophagus. Tung waited, patient as the grave, and eventually, Gary cleared out. He took the phone with him - Tung didn't need concrete evidence, anyway. His word was good, if he chose to say anything. He had seniority in spades.

That was the problem with Gary... and the problem with Nines and Grout, as well. They were all too damn young. No direct experience with what a healthy Camarilla could do for a local Kindred population. They preferred the familiar clusterfuck of hunters and Sabbat cultists to the uncertainty of rules designed to check Masquerade breaches. Tung collected bits and pieces of the overall puzzle, but couldn't yet assemble it in a way they'd acknowledge. He didn't expect _Isaac_ to approve; Isaac was a Toreador. He needed no protection from humanity. But Tung had been alive when the Salem witch hysteria was at its peak, and knew well the dangers of mob mentality.

He melted back into the hallway and, after a brief fruitless search for the disk, hurried to the exit, finding the cool night air a relief after the closeness of the Nosferatu stronghold walls. Something would have to be done about Gary, but he didn't want to resort to assassination - direct, or otherwise. As long as Golden didn't flagrantly cross the Camarilla, Tung could let it slide. This latest thing with Barabus _vanishing_ burned his blood, admittedly. 

He headed toward the gravekeeper's shack, and the ghoul inside opened up with a gun at the ready, but none of the disgust for Tung that his regnant had. "Yeah? What do you want?" 

"Right down to business," Tung purred, "I like that. How'd you like to earn $300?" 

Romero smiled, stepped back, and threw the door wide. He didn't ask, he'd been well trained, and he _could_ pass on to the Baron of Hollywood whatever Tung asked of him, so the Nosferatu knew enough to choose his words carefully.

The Nosferatu dug around in his jacket, curved talons plucking at several bills, "You get $150 now, and $150 when I return. Your job is to monitor who comes in and who goes out of the cemetery over the next week. Not zombie activity, I couldn't care less. But I want tabs on our people, dates and times, names if you know em. If you do a really good job, you might even earn a bonus." 

"That's a lot of booze money." Romero observed, taking the money from the big paw, "And it's not like I have anywhere else to be. Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Tung." 

"You'd be twice as smart to keep this between us, but I won't ask you to lie to your regnant, if he asks." Tung was genial, suspecting the Baron would be - at worst - mildly irritated that someone else was co-opting his ghoul. If he'd been trying to headhunt Romero for blood, it would be a much bigger _faux pas_, and he didn't actually want to piss off Isaac on a personal level. He had headaches enough with Hollywood's hunters, he didn't need Isaac's people hostile to him too. 

He stopped in the alley behind the bank, making a significant dent in the vermin population as he went, famished after so much energy bent toward obfuscation. The grate slid into place behind him, with no one the wiser. It was a long jog back to Santa Monica from Hollywood, almost fourteen miles. Downtown LA was a more achievable eight miles in the opposite direction, and he idled, calculating. 

Downtown represented stronger investment in Prince LaCroix specifically, not the Camarilla. If the Prince fell, there would be another for Tung to support in short order. The Anarchs were just too weak to hold this territory, and once the Camarilla smelled blood, they were reluctant to let lie. They certainly wouldn't want the Kuei-Jin to rip a chunk this big out of the West Coast. 

Santa Monica represented the closest thing he had to sanctuary from the chaos of the current situation: prudent patience and non-involvement. Head down, watch, learn, whisper into the ears of the appropriate party. This was Nosferatu 101, and truthfully, even fourteen miles felt too close to the epicenter sometimes. Like hell was he going to expose Knox to the climate in the Warrens or the topside bloodthirsty hunters. They'd kill regular mortals to get to who they wanted, ghouls were definitely on their hit-list. 

Bad enough that Sunny was likely to visit Tinseltown at some point - and bad enough that democracy in the Warrens meant the Nos themselves had elected Gary Primogen. He wasn't right for the job, selling info to the Giovanni aside. He was too emotional, and the deals he was brokering weren't helpful for the Nosferatu. 

All this passed idly through Tung's thoughts as he drained another rat. The Sabbat's hold was tightening in Hollywood, and there was nothing he could do. The Kuei-Jin loomed from Chinatown like a terminal diagnosis, dwarfing any consideration of the hunters or Giovanni as real threats to the Camarilla. Thanks to Knox and Sunday, that spy was dust, but that didn't mean Ming Xiao was going to back off. She'd been stung by the Anarchs' nest several times, and continued to probe, with increasing intelligence about Kindred political dynamics. 

Tung went east, toward Downtown. He had an abiding respect for the Ventrue as a clan, and he wanted to see LaCroix succeed, or fail, on her own merits. She couldn't do that if no one in the Camarilla would play their role, either. Accordingly, the tower was his first stop, letting himself up to inform the Prince of the sarcophagus' current port of call. Of Gary's treachery, he said nothing. Old habits of _clan first_ died hard, and not solely with the Nosferatu. They would have to solve that problem among themselves, not expose how badly they were disarrayed. LaCroix would learn that Golden could not be trusted, _if_ she didn't move quickly. 

"Bertram." LaCroix stopped him at the threshold with his first name, an almost unheard-of behavior for the cultured Ventrue, but decades of practice schooled Tung's expression, barely, neutral against surprise. "This is a matter for the Primogen, but I assume you've heard Alistair Grout was murdered." 

"Uh huh," Tung, who hadn't heard, would sooner clip his own fangs than own ignorance. "What happened?" 

"We - don't know yet." LaCroix's response was reluctant, and Tung blinked. Definitely more to that than the Ventrue was saying, but Bertram kept quiet. "There was some - confusion - from the sole surviving witness about Mr. Rodriguez's involvement. I need you to determine if he has an alibi for last night, and report back to me. Be advised that time is of the essence; I may need to request a bloodhunt." 

"Understood." Tung saw confusion cycle through to curiosity when LaCroix realized the elder was waiting to be dismissed. 

"You may go." LaCroix indulged it, too dignified to show gratitude, and not willing to admit to the rarity of his respect. It had been a hard year. 

Bertram rolled the meeting over in his mind as he scouted the back alleys of Los Angeles, taking extra care to avoid being seen even by the homeless. The Nosferatu in league with the plague-pushers had put the fear into them, and while the police wouldn't give their reports any weight, Tung didn't get off on the feeling of fear that some kine expressed when they saw him. He _did_ relish in the look of concern from the patrons of the Last Round when he used the front door, though. That was almost worth the price of admission. 

"Something we can help you with?" Skelter, coming down the stairs, covering up fear with machismo, in Tung's estimation. 

"Yeah, turn this off," Tung thumbed in the direction of the jukebox. "Can't hear myself think." 

The Gangrel approached, a slow, cautious prowl, as if he had any real chance in direct combat, but Tung was determined not to let it escalate to that. "Didn't know the Camarilla errand boys did much thinking." 

That was just low grade bait. Tung very nearly rolled his eyes, curtailed it in a little righthanded glance, and within that glance abruptly became aware of Jack, in the back, smoking and being incredibly quiet while the resident bouncer dealt with his intrusion. Avoiding attention in a way that specific Brujah _often_ didn't do. "I want to talk to Nines." Tung reoriented on the prize, not chancing a conflict if he stepped past Skelter, staying put for the moment, "Is he here?" 

If word had already spread about the bloodhunt, Nines might have gone to ground, and it would have taken Tung a bit of digging to unearth him, with time that LaCroix seemed to think was too expensive to spare. 

"I'm here." Nines' voice, from upstairs, "It's quieter upstairs. C'mon up." 

Taking the invitation, Tung moved past Skelter, discarding his presence as soon as he was out of sight. Good. Nines might not want to be the boss of the Anarchs, but they deferred to their superstar that way, it was pretty clear. 

Upstairs, the floor was a little cleaner, though the whole building looked like it hadn't seen upkeep since Knox was in diapers. No wonder the clans with a little _class_ were put off, but Tung suspected LaCroix would have an easier time of it. From what he knew of her history, bottom rung officers at the tail end of Napoleon's Grande Armée were hardly treated any better than soldiers. She was probably accustomed to ditch sleeping, lice, and stealing boots from the dead long before she'd been Embraced. 

These guys might not accept that possibility, though. Nines was watching Tung with that tired vigilance that he'd associate with a sick bird of prey; killing might be his business, but business was lousy and it didn't look like Nines wanted any more trouble than Tung. 

"Thanks for the hospitality." Tung opened, "No sense pretending I'm not here on Prince LaCroix's behalf. But honestly, I wish I'd come sooner. I've wanted to talk to you for a long time, Rodriguez."

That tack was a good one, he could tell. Nines probed for sincerity in the complimentary tone, and wasn't disappointed. "Call me Nines. --Get the business over with first, then. Most of what LaCroix says, I've heard before." 

Tung doubted that. "The Prince needs to know where you were last night." 

"Why?" 

Of course, he was going to make it difficult. There was no way to fish for an alibi without arousing suspicion that he was going to be accused of something. Tung decided to continue employing honesty, "Look. I think you're a decent guy, Nines." 

Nines' eyebrows inched up. "I bet you say that to all the Brujah." 

Tung snorted, undaunted, "And I understand the Anarch Free State concept didn't come about because you wanted to seize power for yourself, without the restrictions of the Camarilla. I've been around, I've seen what people want from you, and I know you're popular enough to raise an army. I appreciate what you're not doing." 

The Nosferatu was very conscious, _skin pricklingly_ aware, of Smiling Jack, downstairs. He was listening overtime for the tread on wooden stairs. Meanwhile, Nines waited for the verbal trap, sure there was one somewhere, and said nothing, giving Tung a look of increasing curiosity that offset some of the hawkish exhaustion. He didn't want to hear praise for the Camarilla, for the Ventrue, for LaCroix specifically, for any of the things Tung thought were important and workable. He absolutely didn't want to hear that the Camarilla's arrival had saved his life, and the lives of the remaining Anarchs, from the Kuei-Jin. 

"If you were here, give me the tapes that prove it, and I'll get out of your hair, huh?" 

"We don't have tapes." Nines deflected, "No more questions. Tell me what the hell this is about." 

_Ugh._ Bertram didn't verbalize it, but it was a near thing. The line of questioning already had Nines aware there was something seriously wrong, and the truth would make him do something dangerous. --There. The tread he was waiting for. Jack coming upstairs, at last. 

"You kids playing nice?" Jack blew a smoke ball in Tung's general direction. Of course he wouldn't goad the other Elder openly, in a one on one match. He must have thought the others would back him up here. "Or is our friend from the Camarilla outstaying his welcome?"

A strange alchemy came over Nines as Jack approached, and that raptor expression hardened once more. "He was either gonna come clean or leave. He's still thinking about which." 

Tung faltered. He had no genuine fear of Smiling Jack, didn't feel impressed by the man, and suspected LaCroix would overlook a fight that ended in the pirate's final death. But he was losing Nines, and rather than be frustrated, he was _fascinated_. Was this a blood bond? Why did Jack's proximity seem to increase Nines' unease, if they were friendly? 

"I'll talk to you again." Bertram promised, "Soon." _Away from Jack._ He retreated, into the bathroom and out the back window, dropping from the second floor to the ground. Nines' refusal to account for his whereabouts and inability to provide documentation for same looked... well. Pretty damn bad. From inside, he overheard murmuring conversation, Jack's attempt to comfort Nines, or to say something at Tung's expense. It wasn't a completely lost opportunity, he was getting through more than he'd thought possible, at first. 

He found an out-of-the-way payphone, reporting to LaCroix that, at least by ordinary means, he couldn't verify Nines _wasn't_ at Grout's home. During the conversation, LaCroix helpfully let slip that the witness had been Sunday themself, and that gave Tung a little more hope. Sunday was nothing if not honest, and wouldn't own anything they didn't sincerely believe, but their lack of experience with Kindred politics meant they might not realize the enormity of falsely accusing a popular Anarch of a Primogen death.

"Who benefits?" Tung said, over the phone, keeping his voice low, "If Grout dies, if Nines is accused, if everybody's looking the other way?" 

"Nines has no alibi, a motive to destabilize the Camarilla, and a predilection for this sort of violence. I've spoken to Strauss. He agrees." 

"Why wait a year, though?" 

The silence on the other end meant he'd either struck a nerve or made a point. Without the benefit of LaCroix's (unusually) expressive face, it was hard to say which. 

"All I required was evidence of Nines' whereabouts. You understand that retribution **must** be swift and accurate. If the Anarchs feel I'm not justified..." 

"I know. I'll keep working it." Bertram excused himself, and hung up. It wasn't neat, or clean, it was a mess. He was glad he'd been giving Knox the slow primer, the introduction to all of this, so that when Knox was Embraced, he knew _exactly_ how frustrating the Kindred world could be.


	3. Stay of Execution

In a rare show of professionalism, the Nosferatu Primogen arrived early to the meeting, in order to drop off the museum keys for Sebastian and engage in a little banter that the Prince could tell was designed to reveal more information before the others arrived. LaCroix, who had assumed their relationship was sickly - who did her level best to meet Gary halfway despite awkward conditions - offered the information he'd need to maintain his persona in front of the others, and tried to encourage his helpfulness with the kind of liberal praise she gave to the Fledgling for completing tasks. Unlike the Fledgling, Gary seemed less than impressed, and again LaCroix felt that quiet despair close around her that Los Angeles was too far gone for her improvement. 

Not for the first time she imagined it if she'd come sooner, but privately, she doubted even helping the Anarchs from the beginning would have made any difference that was a net positive for the Camarilla. Certainly they wouldn't begrudge the years of Kuei-Jin seige, but they would be stronger themselves, and more willing to be openly defiant of Camarilla policy. They would support Isaac's Barony in Hollywood, which LaCroix considered a failed experiment. 

As the rest of the Primogen filtered in, the Prince sorely wished she could have counted Nines Rodriguez among their number, as Brujah representative. She had, in fact, made the offer as soon as she'd arrived, as well as informing the Nosferatu their right to elect their representative, and seeking out Grout. Strauss had elected himself, and the Toreador Primogen had served previously as Primogen of Dover Delaware. Roman had... personality quirks, but fortunately, no relation to, or love for, Isaac Abrams. With Grout dead, Strauss supportive, and the Ventrue Primogen an older, established Ventrue who understood the Camarilla's rules to the letter, LaCroix suspected there would be at worst a 50/50 split over what to do about Nines. 

"Thank you all for coming." LaCroix took stock of the motley group. Only Strauss stood, everyone else had taken advantage of the couches dotted around the sparsely decorated tower, anticipating a long speech. What they got was much more brief, and somewhat more morbid.

"Our immediate concern is that someone has murdered Dr. Alistair Grout. The culprit then presumably set fire to the building to cover their tracks."

The room erupted into angry and overlapping discussion. While Grout had been severely unpopular, his assassination implicitly threatened _their_ safety, and that was their foremost concern. Tipping off Gary and Strauss was politically considerate. Both the Nosferatu and the Tremere liked the illusion that they were on top of everything. 

LaCroix could relate. "Everyone, please. If I may continue." When they'd quieted, she went on, "Armando Rodriguez was spotted outside the building before Grout's body was discovered, by the new fledgling, Sunday Latimore, who you all saw at the trial." 

"The childe Nosferatu, yes." Gary supplied, "Poor thing. So what's the holdup? Take Old Yeller out back and shoot him, nine times for poetic license. What's to debate?" 

Prince LaCroix met Strauss' eyes behind the smoked glasses, knowing she couldn't withhold anything and simply claim ignorance later. "Mx. Latimore isn't completely sure it was Mr. Rodriguez they saw." 

Gary straightened up. "What, someone's trying to frame him? How terrible. At least it'd be easy to figure out who his enemies are... Everyone in this room, for starters. In fact, it's lucky he didn't murder one of us instead. --Oh, wait, I'm back to thinking he did do it." 

The Toreador Primogen, Eabrizio Roman, who insisted Kindred call them by their stage name, _Ouija_, was slowly drinking a cocktail of blood supplied by one of the building's ghouls. Thus far, doing more examining of LaCroix's framed artwork than listening to the discussion in the room. They abruptly tuned back in, "Nines is afraid of Malkavians."

"He is afraid of all of us." Strauss, straight backed and severe, "He lacks the parental guidance of the Camarilla. It is easy to see why he would think simple murder is an answer to his problems. He rejected the offered seat of Brujah Primogen, and he has done nothing since but rabble-rouse and refuse to cooperate. He is young, and he requires guidance." 

LaCroix massaged her temples, trying not to appear too openly frustrated by the direction this was going. It wasn't meant to be a condemnation of Nines as a person, even though LaCroix had ample reason to dislike him. The case was complicated _without_ conjecture, or Strauss' desire to ride roughshod over the Anarchs that LaCroix knew would only result in greater resistance. She had hoped, perversely and against hope, that the Primogen left to talk among themselves would bring up some ironclad point against the Anarch, legitimize the bloodhunt and put her own concerns that Ming Xiao was operating behind her back to rest. 

_Who benefits?_ The answer to that was obvious. Ming had motive, means, and opportunity. No one was watching her movements. She had approached LaCroix for an alliance after watching the Camarilla and Anarch standoff, aware of their fractious front, and had made it clear that rejection meant open war. If LaCroix had managed to win over the Anarchs, their strength together reduced the Kuei-Jin to a manageable concern... 

She didn't dare incriminate herself; Ming Xiao knew she had that degree of leverage, for now. She broke into the debate, "Enough. If any of you wish to question Sunday, in order to finalize your decision, I've called them here for a separate engagement." 

"I would." The Ventrue Primogen, Francis St. Martin, was quiet and deliberate. He was on the Board of Airport Commissioners, and Keeper of Elysium at the Los Angeles International Airport - he'd earned this position despite being barely a hundred years old, over a more influential and powerful local Ventrue, Robert Thorn, because LaCroix just _liked_ him more. It was a dark day indeed when she couldn't rely on Ventrue assistance within the Primogen circle, though. 

Sunday was ushered in by the Sheriff, who they still looked awestruck by, and stood roughly in the epicenter of their elders. They tried not to gawk too openly at Gary, only their second experience with a Nosferatu, and ended up gawking at the Toreador instead, who was a striking, androgynous albino. Ouija smiled encouragingly. 

"There's nothing to be worried about. You're not on trial here." 

"Unless it turns out you did it." Gary added helpfully, "Now would be a good time to confess, if you did." 

Sunday frowned, but before they could reply, Strauss intervened. "Any further disruptive accusations and I will begin a motion of no confidence against Gary Golden." 

"I was only joking." Golden protested, but fell quiet. 

"First of all," Francis said, kindly, "Sunday, close your eyes and turn your back to me, please." 

The Nosferatu hesitated only a beat, and then complied. Nervous, a little, as if there may be something going on here they was unaware of, some danger they didn't feel when around LaCroix alone. "Um, I'm willing to submit to Strauss' truth test, if you need it."

"That won't be necessary," Francis coaxed. "I just want to explore a point. Describe me to the rest of the Primogen." 

Sunday curled their fingers. "You look fiftyish in human years. Balding, salt and pepper hair, a tweed jacket, the kind a college professor wears. I think it might be saxony? Gold rimmed glasses from maybe the 1910s, a gold pinkie ring, and tweed-accented shoes, too. I didn't see any scars, and I didn't get close enough to see what color your eyes are. But your nose is long and you have a strong profile." 

Francis looked impressed. "I'm more than satisfied by the attention you pay to your surroundings, neonate. You can turn around." 

The Nosferatu glanced at the group again, earnestly, "I like watching people. I know it looked like Nines, perfectly. But the person had to act like Nines as well." 

"How do you know what Nines is supposed to act like?" Ouija asked, with tented fingers. "Perhaps murdering a scared old man was hard on his stomach." 

Sunday's ears went down, "With all due respect, my Primogen, I don't think it's right to talk about him like that when he's not here. Doesn't he get to say anything in his defense?" 

Ouija blinked, intrigued. Sunny looked to LaCroix for help, but LaCroix was leaving Sunday to the tender mercy of the Primogen, standing off to one side like an absent referee. For her own part, she looked almost as nervous as Sunday felt, picking at the cuffs of her expensive shirt, as if she couldn't wait to curtail the meeting. 

"The body was tied down and staked," Sunday added, glancing back at the group, "Staking isn't necessary to kill someone if you surprise them, right? Even an older Kindred. Nines has Celerity. Why would he need to tie Grout up?" Sunday knew they only had their own word, no photographs of the scene, or evidence, no fibers to prove Nines was present, "Before you decide to exile or kill him, please let me talk to him." They didn't know when they'd elected themself to be his defense lawyer, either. 

"That is not why you're here." LaCroix's tone was controlled, but brittle, "Sunday, please. For my sake, do this the way the Camarilla traditions require." 

Sunday opened their mouth, then closed it again, looking down at the floor. "Yes, Prince LaCroix." There were a million things they could say - they knew Nines was hurting, they knew Nines' threats of violence against the Camarilla were unacceptable, but they also suspected Nines was in deep mental distress over how badly the Anarch Free States had struggled and failed. They knew Nines was not able, in the guise of free speech, to try to terrorize individual members of the Camarilla to behave how he saw fit, but also that he'd just seen too many of his fellow Anarchs die and couldn't cope with the outcome, a sunk cost fallacy. He couldn't move on, and he couldn't let go. 

"What did Nines say to you?" Strauss asked.

"Uhm... He asked what I was doing there. I asked what he was doing there, in return, and he said 'no'. I said that wasn't a good answer, it wasn't a yes or no question. He seemed confused. He said I shouldn't be there, and then said 'Pardon me', and left." 

"Why didn't you stop him?" This from Gary. 

Sunday was at a loss. "I was there to do something. --Prince LaCroix asked me to check on Grout because you - were all worried about him. I didn't really have time for followup. I didn't see how Nines left, if anyone picked him up or anything. I guess I was kind of startled, but at the time I didn't realize how important it might be or how weird it was that he was visiting Grout. I should have. Honestly, I feel stupid now." 

Strauss strode his velvet shadow closer, opening his hands, in fully appreciative sympathy. "Neonate, you are new to our life, and without guidance from a Sire. For your age and experience, you are far beyond the competence I would expect. Please, don't reproach yourself too harshly." 

"Thank you." Sunday really liked Strauss. 

The Tremere then looked toward LaCroix, and said four words that undid any momentary comfort in Sunday's heart. "I approve the bloodhunt." 

_But why?_ Sunday was absolutely gobsmacked. Strauss had said he wasn't convinced, in the privacy of the Chantry. Was Sunday's lack of conviction, or ability to explain how Nines sounded off, really so damning? Wasn't there room for doubt at all? They looked up at a sea of thoughtful faces.

"Yeah. Sustained." Gary waved a handful of impish claws. 

Ouija nodded. "Bad enough we were down a Primogen already. The Camarilla can't function without us. I approve."

With each vote, Sunday's heart sank lower. LaCroix picked up the bladed ankh on her desk, running her fingers feather-light along the blade, waiting for Francis.

"I oppose. I'm not convinced." Despite the Ventrue being outvoted, Sunday was grateful. LaCroix didn't look offended, but she did glance up mindfully. 

"I cannot call a bloodhunt without a unanimous vote among the Primogen." LaCroix surprised Sunday by not sounding annoyed about it, and gestured with the ankh. "Mr. St. Martin, you aren't required to explain your reasoning..." Though it would plainly be welcome. 

Francis sat back, unbothered. "Say we weren't correct. Say new information comes to light; it would be politically damaging to confess that we called a bloodhunt without an ironclad case. You would lose credibility, Prince LaCroix. It is much better to take our time, increase our own personal security, and listen to this young Nosferatu. They doesn't sound at all sure of what they witnessed, and that makes me, accordingly, much less sure of Mr. Rodriguez' guilt. To move in haste is to regret at leisure." 

Relief blossomed in Sunday's dead heart. They'd bought Nines a little time, they could still fix this. They didn't look to LaCroix, though, mulling over Francis' line of reasoning. It sounded like the younger Ventrue was trying to help the older one avoid making a mistake, but Sunday wasn't sure if LaCroix would see it that way.

Thankfully, the Ancilla Prince moved along gracefully, "I see. Then I consider the matter closed, for now. As for the open Malkavian seat, I will be making arrangements, and reaching out to relevant parties to fill it. If there are no other concerns, I would like to speak to the fledgling alone." 

The Primogen filed out, Strauss glancing back just once and catching Sunny's eye, but unable or unwilling to communicate just exactly what he was doing. Francis shook Sunday's hand, approvingly, with decorum. "It was a pleasure to meet you. Continue to serve the Camarilla to this degree and I look forward to watching your career advance." 

Sunny nodded, didn't feel betrayed by Strauss so much as confused, but found the meeting, overall, very stressful. They couldn't comprehend how LaCroix managed to do this regularly. The door closed quietly, and alone meant with the Sheriff, apparently. Sunday sank into a chair, corded muscles feeling perversely weak with relief. "Strauss told me last night that he wasn't willing to say yes, then he was the first to suggest he approved. I don't understand." 

"Strauss isn't always easy to anticipate, even for me. But after that ruling, the bloodhunt is a non-issue, unless someone turns up something more conclusive. I advise you to forget about it." LaCroix pressed the museum keys into Sunny's hand. "Here. You're the one I can rely on most." 

Sunday instinctively closed their hand around the keys, and looked up at her face as she continued.

"I need you to go to the museum, and retrieve the sarcophagus for me. Tonight. As before, on the Dane, the guards are kine, uninvolved with our struggles, so don't hurt anyone - avoid being seen entirely, if you can help it. Also as before, do not open the sarcophagus under any circumstances." 

The Nosferatu looked unsure. "Alright. I mean, yes, I can do that. --I'm sorry if I said anything to mess things up for you. I want to help." 

LaCroix paused on her way back to the desk, without turning around, inhaling unnecessarily. "You didn't, Sunday. Believe me, this situation's _complications_ are not your fault." 

They had the sense she wanted to give information but _couldn't._ Unlike Tung, Sunday wasn't seasoned enough to leave it alone. "Prince LaCroix?" 

The Ventrue took her seat, making an idle sound of acknowledgment. 

"After I bring back your sarcophagus, is that a minor favor to you?" 

The question was inherently confusing to LaCroix. "Yes. If you're asking if you will be paid, then yes, I'll compensate you for this. Or, you are in your rights to ask something reasonable of me in exchange. A 'boon', we call those." 

Sunday warmed to the concept. "Can I ask you to tell me what else is upsetting you, so I can help with that too?" 

LaCroix searched the Nosferatu's face for any sign of treachery, or even a sign that they already knew what was wrong. She found nothing. The idea that Sunny would just waste a favor on trying to solve more of her problems actually hurt her heart a little, and she struggled for composure. "Bring back the sarcophagus, and then we'll discuss your boon," She managed, a little tight. What had she done to deserve Sunday? 

She was still trying to figure it out for a long while after they left.


	4. Yet There is Method in it

The defensive position for Kindred was the first step on a road that led to final death. At their best, apex predators, and at their worst, slavering cannibals, every individual played a dangerous game - every individual, it seemed, but Sunday. And the curious thing was that their desire to reach out and court all these different people didn't seem to be causing them harm, at least in the short term. They navigated the web of politics with unapologetic honesty. 

Best not to get too invested, and let idealists learn the way of the world. As long as Sunday was useful, LaCroix was going to keep them around, and as long as Sunday's ideology gelled with her own, they'd work well together. She was very cautious about the Kuei-Jin, and about the Nosferatu Primogen - rarely had she met anyone so untrustworthy within the Camarilla itself.

LaCroix opened her laptop, fully intending to send an email to Therese Voerman soliciting her for the position of Malkavian Primogen, but stopped short at a bolded inbox message. 

_ **From: D3V.0@bitbucket.vtm  
Subject: Bathroom Remodeling on a Budget** _

The LaCroix Foundation's secure intranet system inside the tower didn't get spam. It wasn't a thing. So she opened it. 

_Greetings and salutations, Prince of the Realm. I heard your grout's cracked (that'll happen when it's in a bad environment). But the universe told me I'd make an adequate replacement, so you can go back to spinning all the other plates. You ever do vaudeville? I hear it's big in Las Vegas.  
If you already have someone in mind, no harm, no foul, and best wishes to the other candidate! It was an honor just to nominate myself.  
-Dev/Null, a lava Mink, formerly of the Big Apple_

That was curious, and she leaned in closer subconsciously while rereading it. Any hope of clarity was out the window with Grout, but Therese was lucid, and LaCroix sincerely enjoyed her sister's company, for the few times they'd spoken. This one seemed like an odd mixture of traits, respectful and glib, conscious of the Masquerade, so using no words that any spy might be on the alert for... But still contacting via email was odd. And certainly a boast of superior intel, as there was no _formal_ announcement that Grout was dead, yet. 

She composed a quick email in reply, inviting the Malkavian up to see her at their earliest convenience. Still no correspondence from Tung about Nines' exoneration or condemnation. She sent another, similar invitation to Therese, and then sat back. She was rapidly running out of ways to rid herself of her increasingly alarming ally, and the sarcophagus was a last ditch effort. _Could_ Ming Xiao have impersonated Nines? It was elaborate, complicated... certainly not outside the Kuei-Jin's wheelhouse. 

LaCroix massaged her eyes, feeling the weight of the last few weeks on her. The most important mission was all up to Sunday, now. 

The Nosferatu had broken into the museum without incident, and very nearly peed themself when coming face to face with the prank velociraptor. (Why not? Living dinosaurs wouldn't even rank top five of 'strangest reveals'). After that, melting into the reassuring whispering invisibility of their clan's trademark settled their anxieties, and they even managed to enjoy the museum, or what they could see of the exhibits while jogging past. Victorian taxidermied animals had a quaint and undeniable charm to Sunday, who was a lover of ugly things and morbid things - fortunately, given their current lifestyle. While idling and waiting for a guard to pass, they looked up at a mounted heron, admiring the shape of every feather from wingtip to wingtip. This place was so nice, and Sunday so new to Kindred life, that they had to remind themself they couldn't come back in the daytime for a relaxed visit. 

They stopped in a vent system to drink a bloodpack, breathing hard and completely unnecessarily. This was exciting, though, as the ship had been. Not nerve-wracking, like facing the Primogen and needing to account for their observations. Sunday felt _good_ here, doing this. 

They bent a grate back and dropped down, gaining access after a few botched explorations to the lower floor. From there it was child's play to avoid the cameras, but the storage area held disappointment. 

"_No._" The empty crate! Sunday's chest tightened. 

"I know, it's terrible." 

Sunday recognized Beckett's voice, turning instinctively to the Gangrel. "Where - what happened? Did you see?" 

"Sadly, no. I was coming to examine it myself, and apparently I was too late. Wouldn't it have been awkward if all three of us had arrived together?" Beckett lamented, "What a wasted trip. I very much wanted to put to rest all the fears of _antediluvians_ and _Gehenna._" 

The Nosferatu looked suddenly hopeful, and curious. "Would an antediluvian murder a whole ship's crew?" 

Beckett frowned. "What do you mean, _could_ they, or morally would they? It's possible in both cases, but only if they existed. Santa Claus might also bring you presents if you're very good." 

"I know you don't believe in this stuff. So treat it like folklore. Social history. What does the folklore say an antediluvian would do when they woke up?" 

The Gangrel made a tongue clucking sound of gentle reproach at that obvious manipulation, allowing it, "It really depends which one it is, according to the stories people tell. But let's get one thing clear - based on the mess they left on the ship, it's not a _non_ antediluvian, because that is a waste of blood. Any Kindred in torpor would be draining humans, not splashing them about distastefully, but an antediluvian's thirst is only for the blood of Kindred! --Sunday, I'd really feel terrible if anything I said led you to believe in this tripe. It's no more real than the Biblical Caine and Abel is a story of actual murder and divine judgment. The very bedrock of our species is a fairytale." 

"I still want to hear it." Sunday said quietly. 

"I can't spend all night on it." Beckett warned, "And anyway, young one... It makes no difference if we can't locate the sarcophagus." 

The Gangrel turned to leave, but stopped when Sunday reached out to snag the trailing end of her trenchcoat. 

"Wait--... Just tell me one thing before you go. Because it makes no sense to me. If Kindred live a long time, as long as they can survive. And each generation can make another generation, down and down, until you get to thinbloods who can't. Then of course there are older, and older ones; it makes sense to me that antediluvians or whatever you want to call them, do exist. So what is it you don't believe in? The antediluvians themselves, or Gehenna?"

"Gehenna." Beckett confirmed. "The wild and ridiculous stories of a species bound by guilt and fear, longing for a punishment for their crimes, or seeking salvation from same. Caine, as well. Obviously he's fake. Poor tortured soul, if he were real in the ways they think. But if the antediluvians did exist, think about what that would mean. If you showed up in a Prince's court as a third generational Kindred, announcing yourself like any other. Seeking out your childer and grandchilder, out of step with the so-called modern nights. That's one thing, if you don't mind being swarmed by doubting Thomases and brown-nosers alike. And of course their blood, disciplines, and talents would be stronger. They'd have time to study and develop themselves. But some of the stories I hear about what these ancient vampires look like, or are capable of..." 

Beckett trailed away, then resumed, "Sunday, you have to understand. Kindred enter this unlife through the trauma of dying. There is no trustworthy written record, and precious little oral history for most of them, even the non Caitiff. Sunlight and exanguination can kill one of our kind, sometimes in minutes. And there are dozens, if not hundreds of premade enemies for any new Fledgling in a big city. What possible accurate information about the origins of the vampiric race could come down from the lips of a sect barely six centuries old, whose only business during that time - besides covert warfare on other, equivalent sects - was desperate survival?" 

But Sunday still thought it was possible - very old Kindred existing. Where else would they all have gone? And if some had faked their deaths, well, that was also possible. Even Tung felt capable of that kind of thing, and he was 'just' an Elder.

"LaCroix doesn't believe in antediluvians either." Sunday navigated, "I don't think." 

"The Camarilla's official stance is hard agnosticism. LaCroix seems to be professional within those limits, but I wouldn't assume too much before you get to know her." Beckett was casual, "Can I have my coat back, now? This is the first time in a while I've been interrogated."

Sunday let go, abashed. "Sorry. It's really important to me; all this stuff seems connected somehow. Nines being implicated in the murder--the sarcophagus showing up and everybody acting weird." 

"Everybody's always acting weird." Beckett winked, and left. 

Sunday's journey home was a troubled one, and they avoided going directly up to the tower, even when they hit downtown proper. Maybe they could do some investigation and find the sarcophagus themself? They might have worked with Beckett, but the Gangrel seemed to prefer to be alone. They batted around the idea of talking to Strauss, but bothering him so often felt like taking advantage of his welcoming nature - even if he might appreciate the advanced intelligence. What had Tung said? The Nosferatu web 'blanketed the night'? They had 'more going on' than any Kindred could guess at. But if the Nosferatu were the ones in charge of giving information to LaCroix, what had gone wrong? 

All the idling allowed for a car to pull up outside the tower and disgorge a tiny pale person, of Japanese descent, who paid the driver and then instead of heading right inside, started to approach the alley where Sunday was hiding. The Nosferatu spooked backward, not really sure why they didn't use the front door. 

"I know you're here. C'mon, don't be afraid of me. I don't bite, and--Ah. There you are." 

Sunday cautiously stepped into view, hunkering down low to present less of an intimidating presence. 

"Don't worry, it's not my first NosfeRodeo." The person indicated that Sunday could follow down through the sewer, rather than the front door, "Call me Dev/Null. You just came from a field trip, huh? How was it? Did you learn anything?" 

"Not really." Sunday confessed, "A couple things, but nothing concrete. I'm starting to really wonder if there's anything in the sarcophagus, or--do you know anything about it?" 

Dev/Null hit the elevator button and lounged against the back wall, head barely coming up to the support bar that most people leaned their arms on, "I don't know what I don't know, half the time. The other half is great fun. I'm guessing the Jester Prince wants to know more about how to solidify her powerbase." 

Sunday cocked their head, orienting to that nickname, "Jester Prince? LaCroix, you mean. Why 'Jester'?" 

The Malkavian tented their fingers, "Jesters mock the ignorant, and the ignorant mock jesters. Shakespeare has em down as paragons of common sense and honesty. She's got to work hard not to - blow it? Oops. Something going on there? Very specific... Anyway, the Anarchs might think it's all smooth sailing and calamari from up here, but the more floors you climb the more floored you are. Pedastals are invitations for a knock down, and the self righteous making no decision is still a decision." 

Sunday felt like they was barely following that. "Wait - are you Malkavian? Like Jeanette and Therese?" 

"You've met the Dynamic Duo, that's right. You get around! I have Malkavian on my extensive résumé, it's underrated, but it's not the most impressive thing that I am, only the most recent."

Sunday grinned. "What else are you?"

"How much do you know about the Tremere?" Dev/Null inquired, and at Sunday's blank expression, forged on, "They're mages who became vampires, right? You must really be new. You'll pick it up, buddy, and hoard it all like an old lady with a tin of buttons." 

The elevator opened, and the Malkavian exited, Sunday opting to wait outside. The sarcophagus being missing for a few extra minutes wasn't likely to make any difference, it wasn't life or death. Sebastian stood moodily in front of the window, but turned and summoned up a thin, professional smile. Dev/Null cut an unimpressive figure in response, scrawny, small, with a headful of wild black hair, looking like someone who'd rolled out of bed with yesterday's clothes on. 

Neither seemed particularly intimidated by the other. 

"Devin Null." LaCroix crossed the floor to stand behind her desk, "Thank you for coming."

"I didn't think electing a Primogen could be done over email alone, but I had to try." Dev/Null mused, "Before we get too deep into things, it's ve and ver to refer to me, though I hope you'll say only nice things." 

LaCroix looked appropriately scandalized at any other implication. "Naturally, I'm not prone to gossip. I leave that to Bertram Tung - the local Harpy. Now, then, you elected yourself to the Malkavian position? Or such is my understanding of the Malkavian Primogen." 

"That's right, Prince LaCroix. You should still interview Therese, if you don't mind me saying so." Dev/Null returned, "It's good policy to be polite to the Baron of Santa Monica, which is what you've been doing. But I think I've been volunteered, as it goes. I feel the push of the cosmos! And it made me leave my house, which I don't often enjoy." 

Sebastian blinked, "Well, we're all very appreciative, I'm sure. So, you know what happened to Grout." 

Dev/Null laughed, then looked appropriately embarrassed, "Oh, sorry, yes. I do. Grout happened to Grout, really. Those who live by not playing ball will die by not playing ball. But enough malaphors! I don't think the same thing is going to happen to me, I'd hardly put myself in a terrible position for the sake of herding kindred cats. I'm not _Ventrue._" 

For a moment, LaCroix didn't look sure if that was a joke or not, but then she laughed, deciding to take it as one. "No, and the Malkavian population is low in Los Angeles. You will be required to attend meetings, and you'll have a regular stipend of blood to free up your hunting time. Your concern is with what concerns all of the Camarilla, and you are to approve - or veto - my decisions for exiles, bloodhunts, and so on. Does that make sense?" 

"It certainly doesn't make cents, so 9-Ball's way off on your motive." Devin glanced up - and _up_ \- at LaCroix's sheriff, momentarily fascinated, "But, yes. I'll happily accept the position and all its dangly hidden strings. Email me after you've spoken to Therese, and I'll start regularly attending meetings." Dev/Null bowed low, "Is that all?" 

LaCroix nodded, settling down at her desk to finally rifle through the papers that Sunday had brought. Dev/Null stared at them a moment, then added, "That thing you want?" 

LaCroix looked up, sharply, but Dev/Null was not to be easily deterred. 

"You don't want it."

"And why not?" 

"Well, it's pretty morbid." Dev/Null explained, idly, "Look, don't worry about it. When the time comes you're going to make the right call. I think. Maybe. It's funny that way. Oh - your fledgling's outside." 

"Send them in, please." LaCroix turned back to the papers, reading without comprehension, and Devin exited, indicating that Sunday should go in. The Nosferatu complied, knocking on the doorframe politely as they entered. Sunday waited to be acknowledged, and LaCroix, trying not to be too rattled by the last minute, ominous warning, refocused uncertainly onto them. 

"Are you already hiring Grout's replacement?" Sunday guessed, encouraged. "That's a good sign." 

"I have to be seen doing something." LaCroix returned, rubbing her temples, "As my bloodhunt was curtailed by the Primogen, I - ...Do you mean to say you weren't eavesdropping?" 

Sunday looked concerned. "No. I trust you." 

The Ventrue was, as Dev/Null had implied, floored, and said nothing for a long beat, recovering awkwardly with, "Well. Splendid. Then, do you need help bringing the sarcophagus up? Jawara, go assist our Nosferatu fledgling." 

Sunday raised both hands in a 'stop' gesture to the Sheriff, "I didn't. I don't have it." 

"Don't have it?" She echoed, incredulous. "Why not?" 

"It was stolen." 

"_Stolen?_" LaCroix stood up, the chair squeaking loud in protest, looking at the desk as if the papers there held the answer, and gesticulated wildly, "But it was **our** intel! Tonight! The Nosferatu--..." She sank down again and put her head into her hands. "Oh. I should have realized he was being too helpful." 

Sunday moved closer, determination in their squared shoulders. "Prince. Let me make this right. Tell me what to do." 

The Ventrue glanced up, then a change came over her. The tension gradually leeched out of her. "I want Gary found, and I want you to--" She stopped herself, visibly, from making a threat, and Sunday respected the awesome force of will it seemed to take to continue to practice nonviolence. They felt their heart warm even more to her. "I want Gary... Found. Make him tell you what became of the sarcophagus. It - it could be very dangerous. Please don't delay." 

"At once, my Prince." Sunday hazarded, bowing, "I'll get it back for you." 

LaCroix put her chin into one hand, looking off into some distance only she could see, and then reoriented to Sunday, as they turned to go. "...Thank you. Be careful. Hollywood is - a mess."

Sunday nodded, and was gone, leaving her again alone with her thoughts. 

_You don't want it._ Yes, the little Malkavian might be correct, if it was something dangerous, something that couldn't be reasoned with or run from. But at this point what options did she have? She had to dispose of Ming Xiao before the Kuei-Jin leader did it to her. She was absolutely sure that would be the result of carelessly assuming this 'alliance' would hold good from Ming's end. 

"But what if I **need** it?" She asked of no one in particular. 

Jawara glanced at her, and made no reply.


	5. The Widening Gyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 4K chapter appears, for no particular reason.

Sunday went to Santa Monica instead of Hollywood, resolute in their mission to do this thoroughly or not at all. They stopped outside Gimble's Prosthetics once more, perturbed. No police tape. No police cars. And when they approached the door, this time, it swung open invitingly at their touch. 

"Oh come on." Sunday ducked their head and ventured inside, sniffing as well as widening their pupils in the dim basement recesses. All the blood was old smelling, not-to-eat, said their kindred physiology. Not gag inducing but far from desirable. The surgical amphitheatre was almost as they'd left it, with the exception that Gimble's body was missing. Carson's cell stood empty, McGee's still had the torso lying somewhat sadly on the counter. 

Sunday didn't look at it too long, mystified, and a little sickened by the decay setting in. There was no evidence Carson had gone to the police at all! And Gimble hadn't gotten up and walked away. 

Upon leaving, they heard someone coming down the stairs, and froze, unsure whether to go into obfuscation or back into the building again. 

"Hey, cutie." It was Knox. 

"Thank god it's you." Sunday followed the bounty hunter upstairs, falling into step in the shadowy recesses nearby with more skill than a young Nosferatu should probably have, at that point. 

Knox beamed. "I thought I saw you earlier. How've you been? Hey, thanks again for that help. I told Bertram and he's really happy about how it all went. Even you catching onto me, he says we need perceptive Nosferatu in the ranks now more than ever, and he said I'd get better at it. Uh, are you okay? What were you doing down there?" 

"I can't believe the cops don't want to investigate homicide in this town." Sunday returned, troubled, "I think something happened to Carson on his way to tell them about Gimble being a murderer." 

"Yikes." Knox looked intensely troubled, "I mean I've been hanging around in Elysium because it's safer recently, but I can look into it for you if it's just a human thing." 

"I don't think it is a human thing. At least, it was at first, but, I can't see... unless Gimble has a partner, and it's the Southland Slasher. How do Nosferatu get their information?" 

Knox shrugged expansively. "Hiding and listening. Sometimes breaking in places. Hacking. Tapping phones. When I was a bounty hunter I could legally pull up all sorts of documents on people to figure out what cars they'd bought and what credit cards they were using, home addresses, family addresses. But most of them weren't dangerous. People who jump bail do it because they panic about the consequences. The really bad ones don't get bail in the first place, if the system's working properly." 

Sunday felt the urgent press of time on them. If the Prince really wanted this sarcophagus, it was because she was playing a game she felt she couldn't win without it. There really wasn't time to look into Carson's disappearance or the missing body of Stanley Gimble, even if they powerfully wanted to. 

"Where is the police station?" Sunday stopped at the bus station map, and Knox indicated it. The Nosferatu committed it to memory, huffing softly with unnecessary air, then turning to the old abandoned silos, slipping in through the chain-link fence with the bounty hunter close behind. 

"Tung?" They kept their voice low. 

Tung, unlike most of the Kindred in the current situation, was not _hanging around in Elysium._ He did look like he'd only just returned to his hiding spot, but he radiated that uncaring, gentle aura that Sunday found so reassuring. He really did feel leonine, bored enough of his surroundings to afford to relax, even in this chaos. That, or he was very good at pretending.

"Fledgling." He greeted, "And here's Trouble." The Nosferatu Elder ruffled Knox's hair. Knox snickered and leaned in obligingly. Theirs was one of the healthier looking ghoul-Kindred relationships, from what Sunday had seen. "I got your email, cupcake. What do you need?" 

Sunday paused to rearrange their words. "I'm sorry to only stop by when I do need things." 

Tung clucked, "Sweetheart. I don't have a tab for you. You're one of us. You might not realize it yet, but Nosferatu look out for one another above everything else. Even sect. You ever see any Nosferatu in the Sabbat, they'll hold fire on you. And they'll expect you to do the same. The Camarilla knows better than to expect us to attack our own... antitribu don't exist for us." 

"Anti...?" 

"Traitors, is the shorthand. Other clans give a crap when their internal structure breaks ranks, usually they just end up being so unstable they aren't very good at causing trouble... despite their best efforts. But believe me, Nosferatu are loyal. No matter the circumstances otherwise." 

Sunday nodded, filing that away, remembering what Dev/Null said about buttons. "Then maybe you can tell me a little about Gary?"

The change that came over Tung was profound - every muscle alerted. "What about him?" 

"LaCroix says he's the reason the sarcophagus wasn't at the museum. I went there and someone had stolen it ahead of me. And Beckett was there too." Sunday reported, dutifully. "Beckett doesn't think it's anything worth stealing, for a normal kindred."

"Yeah. That figures." Tung looked to be thinking very hard, but not about what Sunday was assuming - he already knew Gary had sold the damn thing out from under LaCroix. "So the Prince sent you to get it alone, huh. What does she want you to do now?" 

"Find Gary, and figure out where it is. She - was very angry, but she didn't tell me to try to hurt him." Sunday looked hopeful, "Can you tell me where he is?" 

Tung tapped a gnarled talon to his chin. "The warrens," He concluded heavily, "But you won't luck out finding them on your own very easily. You could be wandering the storm systems under Hollywood for weeks before you found em. I tell you what. I essentially owe you a favor already for helping my ghoul here out of the _Kuei-Jin problem_, and because you didn't explicitly ask for it, I feel even more generous. So I'll come with you to Hollywood. And we'll talk to Gary together." 

"Really?" Sunday brightened. "Thank you." 

Tung lifted one hand, "Don't mention it; we're even now. You know when you first came to me, I thought you might have talent, but I never thought you'd get as far as you have with that attitude. I'm tempted to see for myself how you handle Gary." 

Sunday straightened up unconsciously. "I won't disappoint you." 

Tung just chuckled, fond and low, and then indicated they should follow. Both of them. "Knox might as well come with us as far as downtown. I want everybody I'm working with to know the routes I use to and from the major areas of LA. Nosferatu blood eventually changes ghouls, too. They start looking a little inhuman, scares the kine.... Knox is going to have to use the sewers like the rest of us, soon." 

Knox didn't seem bothered by that at all, grinning at Tung's back, and keeping up with them easily. 

Sunday nodded, "So why do you think Gary told someone else about the sarcophagus?" 

The Elder was silent, passing a grated entrance and moving with the self assurance of someone walking down Main Street. After a minute, he said, "Because Gary's playing a game he hasn't been properly trained for. He thinks he's cutting good deals, intimidating people. But he's young and probably shouldn't be Primogen. He hates being one of us, too, and that doesn't help." 

Sunday exchanged a look with Knox, concerned - the bounty hunter put a hand on their shoulder, soothingly. "Not everybody gets ghouled gradually or even asked at all. I know you weren't. But some people are targeted specifically to hurt them." 

"They think 'looking ugly' is a curse." Tung made air quotes, "It's sad, really. They keep too much of their human brain. They might as well be the worst of the Toreador for how they view beauty, they get bitter and jealous, inflict the 'curse' on other attractive people, spread it like a disease. It's bad for the Nosferatu, bad for the Camarilla. Bad for business, generally. Siring with permission just works. I don't care what the Anarchs say about right-to-Sire, if you rouse up the humans by being careless with the Masquerade, Brujah and most Gangrel can hide in plain sight. It's Nosferatu that have to work overtime to compensate. So for Gary to sire the way he does is pretty insecusable." 

Sunday sloshed along the rainwater in silence, digesting those thoughts. They noted some garbage, but overall, found themself relieved with the sanitary conditions of Tung's route. They thought Tung might take less wholesome routes to avoid urbexers, but that didn't seem to be an issue... 

"LaCroix is young." They offered/asked. 

"Yeah, young Ancilla, and Ventrue. That's a whole different ballgame. See, the Ventrue have this special training course - hardly any Ventrue are sired with force, or out of impulse. It _happens_, but it's rare. The rest are taken in by the whole Clan and trained for years on end to lead the Camarilla, to understand all its inner workings, etcetera. They're mentored by elders ideally of every clan to work out what helps each best. So a young Ventrue is still going to have more knowledge about this than a Nosferatu of the same age... and Gary's, what, a fourth the age of LaCroix? It's bad, too, because he doesn't know what the Camarilla is good for at all. He thinks he can hide in the Warrens and not worry about the consequences, but hunters don't go away once they've figured out a place is "infested" with our kind.... Here. This is where you get off, Knox." 

The ghoul saluted cheerfully, then leaned in to give Tung a hug. "Be careful." 

"Hey. That's what I was going to say to you." Tung teased. The ghoul climbed up the ladder, leaving Tung and Sunday alone, and for a little while they traveled in mutually agreeable silence.

"It's not just hunters - they're bad enough on their own." Tung added, scooping up a rat, not to eat it, just to pet it, meditatively. "The Sabbat see the Nosferatu as allied with the Camarilla. That makes us their enemies, too. The last thing we want to do is alienate the Camarilla by screwing with the Prince for no real profit. I didn't want to do this - shit, I didn't even want to _say_ it - but I think we need to demote Gary, and if he puts up a fight then we're going to have to do essentially the only other thing Kindred _can_ do in these situations, and put him out of our misery." 

Sunday swallowed. "Is that what we're going there to do right now?" 

"No." Tung was firm on that, "No, we're just going to put out the sarcophagus fire first. And part of the reason I'm coming with you is that a few weeks ago there was a European Nosferatu, talked a little too loudly about supporting the Camarilla. He disappeared. Last place he was seen is Chinatown - a place none of us should be going to - and I'm pretty sure Gary sent him there." 

This was intense, but Sunday felt they could still follow along, nodding. "You think he'd try to get rid of me the same way?"

"I'm gonna be invisible, so we'll see if he does." Tung flashed a serrated smile at them. "This is good practice for you, too. And don't take whatever Gary says to to heart. Like I said, the Nosferatu... don't act like this, normally. I've been around a long time, and he's atypical. That's probably why LaCroix didn't anticipate him betraying the Camarilla."

As they approached Hollywood, Sunday found themself getting more and more nervous. They tried to work against it consciously, squaring their shoulders, grounding themself. This wouldn't be so bad... 

"Hold up." Tung grabbed one of their leather straps, arresting forward progress. "Gonna have to take a longer path here. The tunnels have, uh. Unfriendlies." 

"Who are they?" 

Tung looked uneasy for the first time in a little while. "More like what. There's at least one Tzimisce in Hollywood, nobody else can do this." 

Sunday was about to ask what 'this' was, peering around the corner, and seeing from a distance a confusing, almost arachnid jumble of limbs and forms. Their eyes widened, trying to decipher the underlying anatomy. 

"That's pretty bad for the Masquerade." Tung said unnecessarily behind Sunday, "But I haven't mentioned it for three reasons. Most of these old tunnels are closed to the general public - I think LaCroix has trouble enough without having to worry about the Sabbat's extracurriculars - and this is Isaac's territory, and ultimately Isaac's SNAFU. _This_ is what Anarch leadership gets you." 

Sunday moved with Tung into a side tunnel, whispering, "There are more of these things? How many?"

The Elder Nosferatu kept his voice down, as well. "Dozens. Easy. Not all as big as that one." 

"Can the Sheriff help?" Sunday thought the Sheriff might be big enough for it. 

"Oh, sure. But why? So Isaac can accuse LaCroix of trying to muscle in on his domain?" 

Sunday's nose wrinkled. "Would he do that?" They followed as Tung moved down a side passageway, into a small office looking room. 

"He either doesn't know they're here, which means he can accuse us of spying on his domain, or moving through it without offering him tribute.... or he does know, and he's powerless to do anything about it. And one thing oldschool-minded Kindred hate is being shown up for not having the clout they pretend to. So even if I told LaCroix, it just gives her the knowledge, and then she gets to decide if she wants to agitate Isaac, or get in deep with the higher ups if they investigate how well she's doing here. So for now, I'm sitting on it."

"You're trying not to upset her." Sunday observed, approvingly.

"It's like I said. I respect Ventrue. They take responsibility, and the mountains of bullshit that come with it. If I thought it'd help, sure, I'd tell her." He headed down the corridor, coming to an unremarkable door, and picked the lock. "Here we go. I'm showing you this way because if you ever come back here alone, I didn't want you to run into them unprepared."

Sunday flexed quietly. "I might be able to kill them, if you think that'd be better." 

"C'mon now." Tung said, but it betrayed uncertainty, "What makes you think that's a safe idea? Who've you been fighting?" 

"Plaguebearers. A 'Nagaraja'?" 

"LaCroix asked you to kill a Nagaraja in your first two weeks?" 

"No- uh, no. It was extracurricular."

Tung looked interested to know where they'd even found a Nagaraja, but didn't press. Instead, he gave the Fledgling a gentle push forward into the deeper tunnels, and stepped into the shadows himself. 

Truthfully, Sunday would rather fight a big multi armed monster than present themself in any one-on-one public speaking capacity, but they were committed, so they went forward. The warrens were surprisingly homey, lit with neon signs and fairy lights. Despite the skeletons, and odd lakes of boiling chemical water runoff, Sunday found the atmosphere interesting. They approached Gary's door, rapping loudly, and receiving no answer, pushed it in, only to be faced with ... more skeletons. Sunday investigated them with distaste, finding they were too old to be recent murder victims... 

"Cast and crew only, boss." Gary's voice, they recognized it from before. "How did you get down here without being seen?" 

"I'm Nosferatu." Sunday said, brightly. "I'm here to talk to you about the Prince's sarcophagus. Can you tell me why the intelligence was faulty?" 

"I never give faulty intelligence." Gary, remaining invisible, snapped it with irritation, "Your Prince moved too slow, that's all." 

_Your Prince._ Sunday filed that away. "Who else did you tell?" 

Now, Gary did appear, sitting on the edge of the dining table, gesturing with open hands and a leer. "I never give free intelligence, either." 

Sunday contemplated that. "Would you like me to kill the monsters in the sewer in exchange?" 

The offer blindsided the Nosferatu Primogen, whose sneer went a shade... uncertain. "They're easy enough to avoid. Sure you figured that out for yourself. And while you also figured out I don't like Sebastian, I'm neck and neck for not liking Isaac either. If those things crawl up and eat a few kids, let em. Boo hoo. Getting caught by hunters would serve that smug Toreador right." 

That just made Sunday more intent on getting rid of the Tzimisce's handiwork, but they knew it'd be wiser to identify the source, first. They had no idea what the cooking time was on one of those creatures. 

"So what can I do for you?" Sunny was patient, in a way that LaCroix would be proud of, if she could witness it. Tung was definitely proud, lurking by the doorway in complete silence. 

"One of our own vanished in Chinatown, not long ago." Gary was unaware he was sealing his own fate with that sentence, as Tung straightened up and nodded to himself. "If you can go there and get him back, then why not? I'll tell you who I sold the sarcophagus to. I'll even give you directions. And don't worry, it's perfectly safe. The locals will probably see you as a curiosity, not a danger to them. Just go approach that big palace eyesore, announce yourself to Ming Xiao, and then you should be able to recover our operative. His name's Barabus." 

_Just how stupid do you think I am--?_ Sunny almost let the upset show; it was a near thing. Go to a non-Kindred friendly zone, and announce that you were looking for a captured spy? To the leader of the Kuei-Jin? 

"I thought the Anarchs and the Kuei-Jin were at war." Sunday navigated, without looking back or around for Tung, though they had no idea how well or poorly they were doing. 

"Sure, boss. They were. But they truced, right about when the Camarilla rolled in." 

Sunny took that to mean the Kuei-Jin hadn't particularly wanted to truce, and that the Anarchs hadn't had much choice. "So if I go find Barabus in Chinatown, you'll tell me who has the sarcophagus." 

"Agreed. You're new at this, so I don't mind cutting you a little break. It's not that difficult." Gary waved, "Bye now." 

True to his word, Tung didn't reveal himself, and Sunday found that a relief, as they put some distance between themself and Gary. They didn't _like_ the Primogen - they were liking him less all the time, in fact - but they didn't particularly want to kill him, it was not their go-to for problem solving. The Nagaraja had felt like a major Masquerade risk herself, attacking a film crew, and the Plaguebearers had each been a different flavor of cultish. Admittedly, it was increasingly difficult to think of good solutions to these problems that wasn't violence.

"I'm starting to see how LaCroix was here for a year and things are still a mess." They confessed, when they'd exited the warrens safely, and Tung led them down to the back alley behind the Hot Spot. "What's our plan?" 

"I already know who has the sarcophagus. I was there mostly to witness him sending you to Chinatown, and admit to sending Barabus, too. It's bad, I didn't want to have to Embrace Knox just to get another vote to unseat him." 

Sunday gravitated at once to a nonviolent option. "Who gets to vote? I was going to try to save Barabus anyway; even if he supported the Sabbat."

Tung grinned appreciatively. "Yeah, Barabus counts. Me. Knox, if I rush the Embrace, otherwise ghouls don't get to vote. You. Both Gary's Childer, Imalia and Mitnick... they'll go for him; he's bloodbonded them. It's why I stay out of the warrens, lately. He knows I don't like the way he does things, and sooner or later it was going to get bad between us." 

"No one else?"

"There was your sire. But LaCroix killed em, and good for her. I don't approve of force Embracing, especially for our clan. I repeat that every chance I get. _My_ sire gave me a choice; I would've hated her if she didn't. It's okay if you hate yours." 

Sunday didn't know how to feel about their sire, honestly. In some ways they hadn't had time enough to calm down and really assess the situation for what it was, and in other ways, they felt it was an improvement. They'd always felt different from humanity, though with a strong urge to be around, and be like them. Even now, they felt the pull of wanting to help individual humans, and they felt deep sorrow at the pain of others, even a stranger like Tin Can Bill, or a long dead sufferer, like the lady in the hotel. 

So actually, officially being inhuman was almost a relief, and it hadn't _unleashed the predator inside_ or whatever Smiling Jack had been trying to say. They mostly ate rats, even!

"I don't know if I hate them." Sunday said honestly, "They stuck around to explain. They might have had their reasons... and I'm happy being what I am, so far. I want to help whoever I can, and -- Tung, I honestly think the Anarchs and the Camarilla can get along and work together if they just listen to each other. Right now, I know Prince LaCroix wants the sarcophagus because - she said it could be dangerous. But I also want to exonerate Nines and figure out who really killed Grout. I don't think Nines realizes how serious it is to talk about killing Camarilla officials."

"Mmm." Tung could sympathize. "I get it. Go ahead and do what LaCroix's asked you to, I would. I really don't want to stick my own neck out into Chinatown, but Barabus _is_ one of us." 

"Would Nines help us get Barabus back?" 

From the look on Tung's face, it wasn't an avenue he'd even considered. "I don't know. I guess it's worth a try. The worst you'll get is no... and the Anarchs are sworn enemies of the Kuei-Jin, truce or no truce. You don't just forget about a five year war - especially Kindred. We hold grudges like it's our job." 

While that wasn't reassuring for peace overtures with the Camarilla, Sunday could appreciate a longer lived race having a longer memory for bad behavior, and nodded. Maybe if they worked together, the Anarchs would have to admit that the Camarilla wasn't all bad, and Strauss would have to admit the Anarchs were community minded? Everyone could win, in theory.

"The sarcophagus first." Tung reminded them. "It's in the possession of the Giovanni." 

"Is he dangerous?" 

"They - the Giovanni is a clan, sweetheart. And yeah, they're dangerous, sometimes. Not all of them, and not _always_, but they're independent, with no alliances with the Camarilla or the Sabbat. And they won't let you in looking like that, they'll attack you on sight. You won't be able to talk your way out of this one. But if you hurry, you can get the jump on them. Going after Barabus first would really delay you, give them a chance to get their prize locked up tight in that inner sanctum of theirs." Tung drew directions on the sewer map, handing the paper back after a moment. "Good luck." 

"Thanks, Tung." It felt good to have the Nosferatu Elder so firmly in their corner. Despite everything they'd been told (and some things they'd been shown) they were convinced that every Kindred had at least the _possibility_ of being trustworthy.


	6. Horses for Courses

Nines stood just outside the boundary of The Last Round's Elysium, looking up at Sunday, who perched like a gargoyle atop the dumpster. One thing Sunday always fiercely appreciated about Nines was that the Anarch never seemed repulsed by their appearance, or the unusual contortion of their limbs, or their big curled claws. They might be a monster, externally, but Nines appeared to look within, to the heart. 

Sunny just wished Nines could look past whatever it was that rubbed him so wrong about LaCroix, too. 

"You want me to come with you into the heart of Chinatown, to rescue a Nosferatu I've never met, who's loudly pro Camarilla." Nines summed up, taking a swig (of a suspiciously dark liquid) out of a green beer bottle.

"I'm loudly pro Camarilla," Sunday pointed out, balanced perfectly on the lip of the dumpster. "And you know I'd help you anytime you needed it." 

That didn't look like it reassured Nines any. "Every time I think I've got a bead on you, kid, you move." 

"Just think it over, please?" 

"--Did LaCroix put you up to this?" 

That threw Sunday for a loop. "The Prince doesn't know anything about it, at least as far as I know. It's a Nosferatu concern." They navigated that with honest care, curious, "Even if LaCroix wanted it, does that make it automatically the wrong thing?" 

"No. I'm passionate, not fanatical." Nines finished the rest of the bottle in one gulp. "And I'm not sold on this being a good idea, but I'm not sure how I feel about you going into Kuei-Jin territory all by yourself, either. It's like you want to get killed." 

Sunday grinned. "You have a little time. I have something else to do first. I'll come back for your answer tomorrow night, if all goes well, okay?" 

When the back door banged open, and Skelter temporarily commandeered Nines' attention, Sunday was gone, and Nines spent a few more moments on the back stoop, peering into the night. 

It was good to give the Anarchs advanced warning of their designs on Chinatown. They had a common enemy in the Kuei-Jin, and Sunday was already possessed of a sneaking suspicion that not all Kuei-Jin were evil or even aggressive. There had been a Chinatown in Los Angeles for longer than five years, and Nines had mentioned the war alongside the Kuei-Jin not being able to really comprehend how to kill Kindred properly. They'd bet their last talon that new leadership was to blame.

Kindred, and Kuei-Jin, and Kine, were all three probably not all that dissimilar. Decent as individuals, fundamentally. Easy to spook, and even easier to rile up against 'other', or 'different'. That was on some level a simplification, but it also felt consistent with what Sunday knew, so far, about having lived as a human and investigated Kindred in high pressure situations. Even the Anarch Camarilla divide felt like classic human misunderstanding, but there was a troubling lack of official diplomats in L.A.

They just hoped Nines was the kind of punk who could re-evaluate his opinions. 

Sunday tracked the likely routes of a small or midsize truck from the museum to the Giovanni's mansion, heading on foot and underground, emerging at a quiet pit-stop off the main highway. They relished in the peaceful crickets, sculpted pine and tree islands... It felt unnatural but in a good way. An orderly bulwark against the unpredictable darkness, and the strange otherhumanly beings that Sunday now knew lurked within.

They watched some truckers come and go, ignoring the ones with bright logos, and slunk over to pick the locks of the plain trucks while their occupants were off smoking or using the restrooms. One thing Sunday had discovered, (which was embarrassingly obvious in hindsight), was that Kindred, as blood drinkers, still needed to urinate.   
It was probably best for the Masquerade, anyway. People tended to notice odd things like 'never using the bathroom'. 

Two young men pulled up in a nondescript white truck, one exiting and heading off to the toilets, while the other remained inside. Sunday slunk silently to the back of the truck and started working on the lock. 

Inside, the sarcophagus sat innocuously, not even covered by a tarp, and Sunday grinned ear to ear to see it.

"Time to find out if I can drive a stick." They returned to the front of the truck, looming suddenly out of the darkness, and the man, who had been paying attention, credit to him, screamed something in Italian that sounded like 'Porca puttana, porca puttana', as Sunday wrenched the door open and dragged him out.

"I'm not going to kill you," Sunday wasn't sure if that was getting through, and so held up a fingertip to their jagged jaws as the universal symbol for 'be quiet', and could hear their hummingbird heartbeat kick up even higher in the space between them.

Whatever Kindred called the Beast, Sunday felt in the sense that an animal lover accepted a big dog barreling them over to give love, and felt no bloodlust to end this man's life. All their senses surged with awareness, and they chose to act - or not - with violence or restraint. Part of the reason they loved working with LaCroix so far was because she had urged them to be careful on the Dane and at the museum, not to harm people, and that resonated with their 'Beast'. They had to wonder if some Kindred had propagated the corruption of their individual power as a personified, inexorable urge. 

In any case, Sunny knew this was a living person - a ghoul, like Mercurio? - who might not have anything to do with the Kindred politics and problems, and practiced restraint, as violence was currently avoidable.

They climbed up into the cab, glad to see the keys were still in the ignition, and then felt a burning pain in their right side, commensurate with a gunshot. 

Yes, the Giovanni ghoul had a handgun, but it was nothing that could stop the fledgling, or even really slow them down.

"Please don't do that again." Sunday requested, closing the door and putting the truck in reverse. 

The gears ground uncertainly under Sunday's novice touch, but they managed to get it turned halfway around without jackknifing, when the second man returned. Another gunshot, breaking the glass of the truck windshield, and Sunday held up one taloned hand as if to critique the Giovanni for a poor driving maneuver.

"I should run you over, really." They said, but didn't. 

They mounted the curb on the way out, coaxing the truck into the flow of traffic with its precious cargo, and made their way direct back to downtown L.A.

Sunday had not been officially trained in the ways of the Nosferatu, but knew well enough it was best to turn the high beams on to dazzle oncoming traffic, as well as avoiding built up areas if possible. They was not the sort of Kindred who could move comfortably among the kine, and yet their method for solving Kindred problems was - authentically _Ventrue:_ don't draw attention, let the kine do the heavy lifting, and try to leave things as undisturbed as possible, without irreparable ruptures in the Masquerade. Letting that potential ghoul see them was an issue, but killing him meant they'd have to do something about the body. People disappearing would raise even more questions, especially in connection to the sarcophagus. 

The Prince knew that the world was watching, in that respect. It was important to be discreet. 

They stopped not far from the nearby abandoned Linda Vista Community Hospital, taking the keys with them, and called the LaCroix Foundation number. Chunk, who served as security guard, receptionist and front desk operative, answered after a couple rings.

"Howdy hello, you've reached the LaCroix Foundation. How can I help you?"

"Can you call up to Pr-- Sebastian LaCroix and pass on a message about the - special Sunday delivery?" There were no established code words, so Sunday floundered a bit. 

But Chunk was goodnatured. "That's a ten four, good buddy, wait just one moment please. Ah, what was your name?"

"It's - Sunny." Sunday gathered more confidence, knowing LaCroix would probably be pleased they'd managed to snatch the sarcophagus out from the hands of what sounded like a rival vampire faction. 

"Like Sonny & Cher? Oh, never mind, I'm not gonna haveta spell it out to her. Yessir, I'll be right with ya again!" 

Sunday found it interesting that they was 'yessired' and yet Chunk was apparently on good enough terms with LaCroix to know she was trans. They tilted their head invisibly at the phone and waited, listening to the Opus Number 1 hold music and quite enjoying it, to the point they was a little disappointed when Chunk got back on the line with them. 

"Hello? Sonny? Sounds like you made Ms. LaCroix's night. Probably because it's not even Sunday, haha. She wants to talk to you direct, so just one sec." 

There was a click, and then LaCroix's voice. "Sunday. My most trusted, most effective operative. You have the - objective?" 

"Yes. I took it from the Giovanni." 

LaCroix inhaled quietly. "Good. There won't be any awkward political situations to smooth over. The Giovanni aren't friendly to the Camarilla, nominally or otherwise, as they are in some territories. --And you managed to track it down, recover it, and bring it back here within twelve hours, and with no bloodshed." 

"I don't like bloodshed." Sunday confessed, "But I had help. It's okay, I don't mind owing Tung favors. He's really nice." 

Silence for a second, then, "You are a _miracle worker_, Sunday. I am proud - blessed, even - to call you my own. Please bring it around the back, Jawara will help you get it inside discreetly." 

Sheriff Jawara also didn't look much like someone who could be seen walking down the street, and despite the fact that he rarely spoke, Sunday was a little fond. Anyone who was that loyal to LaCroix had to be decent in Sunny's book. 

They didn't relax until they'd made it upstairs with the cargo, and then, once they'd set the heavy limestone casket down, stretched their tired limbs and popped their shoulders out of joint, yawning big and displaying a truly vicious set of chompers. 

LaCroix was unperturbed. "Excellent work, both of you. Thanks to Sunday's - incredibly professional speed, we have outstripped Beckett, the local expert, by a considerable margin. I therefore see no harm in a sneak peek of the contents of the sarcophagus before the Gangrel scholar's arrival. Sunday, if you would."

The Nosferatu blinked, then looked to the casket again and prowled over to it, setting their fingertips to the lid and heaving upward. They had become accustomed to their prodigious strength, and so it came as a surprise, almost a concern, even, when the lid did not move. 

"Hold on." They got down to kneeling level, peering at the rim all around to try to determine if there was some hinge mechanism, or if they were thwarted by some other means. 

"It's hardly a rubix cube, what's the matter? It doesn't just lift off?" LaCroix followed them over, standing nearby, not thinking to test her own strength against the Nosferatu's. 

"I don't think so." Sunday tried again, putting their whole back into it, and their muscles rippled with the effort in vain. 

LaCroix exchanged a look with Jawara, then back at the sarcophagus. "Troublesome little artifact, isn't it. I thought you said it was open on the Dane?" 

"I said it looked that way. There were bloodied handprints leading up..." They put their hand in imitation of where they'd seen them. "Beckett said it's not a young vampire inside, because they'd have been in torpor? And that means they probably didn't want to waste blood by spilling it everywhere." 

"...Yes, that would follow." LaCroix sounded disappointed, though. "Are we going to have to bash it in? I had hoped to preserve the thing for the historian's sake, but if I have to get a tongue lashing, I'd rather not get it from the Primogen."

Sunday unslung a sledgehammer from their back, suggesting, "Maybe if we took some pictures of the lid first, that would be good enough."

LaCroix was as tempted by the sledgehammer as anything else she'd seen from Sunday, but Ventrue discipline won out. "No, leave it for now. It's a disappointment that we can't open it, I admit, but - we must focus on the victories. And the method by which it was recovered leaves no doubt in our enemies' minds that the Camarilla are not so easily trifled with." 

_Our enemies_ made Sunday remember suddenly the imprisoned Nosferatu. That would have to wait until the next sundown, because there was barely time to make it back to their haven before the sun rose as it was. LaCroix seemed to realize this, beckoning them to the desk. 

"Come here, let's settle up our accounts, shall we? And then if you like, you can stay the day." 

Sunday beamed, taking the $600 and stuffing it away almost without caring about the money at least as much as LaCroix didn't seem to care about giving it. While LaCroix was paying for their room and board, they didn't have any real expenses, except possibly to help out the ghoul they'd accidentally acquired - Heather - where possible. They'd been putting a lot of things on the backburner, and one of them was trying to handle how intense Heather was about them, wondering if perhaps they'd done something wrong, where blood transfer was involved. 

"You mean it, you don't mind if I stay?" They inquired, undead heart feeling fiery and light in their chest. 

"Make yourself at home." LaCroix invited.

Sunday would likely have capitalized on their excitement with a little flirting, if they hadn't been exhausted. They found it in themself to shower, washing off some of the acquired detritus, and then stumbled into the bedroom, climbing onto the four poster bed and passing out right there, a bundle of black leather straps and zippers. LaCroix stayed out front, working on various small cases that presented themselves to a Prince with a skeleton crew retinue, but retreated to the same room as daylight approached. Jawara excused himself to stand guard elsewhere, and Prince LaCroix found herself looking down at the fledgling's sleeping form affected far more by the natural celestial cycles than the ancilla. She pulled up a blanket and covered the Nosferatu, looking around the room, which really wasn't designed to host more than two people in the same bed together.

That would be improper. Beyond improper, she didn't want to impose on Sunday's personal space when the fledgling was unconscious, without so much as a by-your-leave, even if her intentions were solely to sleep. She itched her neck, then padded off to the wardrobe to at least change into something more comfortable. Likely Sunday would sleep long and deeply, not only being newly dead, but having been run as ragged as LaCroix herself in the past two weeks and a few nights... Hardly a moment of inactivity, and most of the activity was negative.

She retreated to the chair in the corner of the room, opening up her laptop and sending a few updates to interested parties, including a message to the Primogen about the sarcophagus being in Camarilla possession. It might be an insult to send one to Tung informing him directly that the sarcophagus had been attained, so she sent something neutral, but positive about the fledgling's abilities. It wouldn't hurt to have that in writing, should Sunny choose to pursue a career actively in the Camarilla. She would hate to lose them to another Domain, but she would speak highly of them to another Prince, and be confident that Sunday would not make her regret the referral.

_If_ they decided to leave. She was hoping more with each passing day that they elected to remain. And with the sarcophagus now in her possession - operable or not - it represented power and stability that she could use to convince multiple parties of her strength, bargaining power... all without needing to kill. The Anarchs, the Sabbat. Ming Xiao. 

In the elation of the last few hours, she'd almost completely forgotten the shadow cast by that woman, for the first time since the Kuei-Jin had showed up with her 'alliance.'

Sunday would start asking questions about 'what was bothering her' soon. But it was too much even for the Ventrue to handle just then. Tomorrow night, with a fresh mind, and hopefully no fresh problems. She closed the laptop and set it aside, curling up in the chair to catch a few restless hours of sleep as the city of Los Angeles stirred for its daily rat race.


	7. CSI: Bloodlines

Most Kindred dreamed of their living states, but that night, Sunday dreamed of Rosa, the thinblood psychic on the beach. They remembered how desperately she wished to escape Los Angeles, and tried to tell her that the future - fate - was not set in stone. That fate was zephyr, wind, gale, whichever, but people set the heading, and had responsibility. 

Most fates could be changed, even if the agency available was modest. But she wouldn't be swayed, frantic, urging, until at the last Sunday just gently embraced her and promised to get the money she wanted to leave. 

They woke in an unfamiliar, but luxurious bed, listening to quiet voices in the room over. Alone, and feeling remarkably recharged, given the energy debt they'd been racking up over the course of the fortnight since their Embrace.

LaCroix's voice was the most instantly recognizable, and soothing. Then Strauss, also in its own way positive, gentling. Strauss always spoke to Sunday as if they was a skittish horse ready to bolt, and they didn't think they could mark an instance of his getting truly angry. The other two voices were initially unfamiliar, but after a few minutes of their brain shaking off the fog of sleep, they realized it was the conversation of two of the Primogen they'd met briefly before. 

The Nosferatu noted, with some warmth, that LaCroix had tucked them in, and got up to pad into the big reception room again, to see three of the five Primogen: Francis, Strauss and Ouija, engaged in discussion around the sarcophagus. Prince LaCroix and her Sheriff were also present. 

"There you are." LaCroix noted, "You must have needed that rest, you overslept by an hour and a half. Are you hungry? I didn't want to presume." 

Sunday yawned, feeling their brain reluctantly kicking into gear. Being made a creature of the undead night couldn't turn them into a 'morning' person, even if morning was sundown, apparently. They felt a little peckish, but nothing that couldn't wait. "I'm fine, thanks." 

"Mmm. Beckett has been and gone already. The archeologist who discovered the sarcophagus, Dr. Ingvar Johansen, is downtown as well, practically a stone's throw." LaCroix sounded bitter, and Sunday suspected it was because the Nosferatu would have ordinarily informed a Prince of this, not Beckett. But the coincidence of the archeologist was what stuck in Sunday's craw. 

"How did he get to Los Angeles?" 

The older Ventrue didn't seem to quite comprehend the question, or why Sunny was asking. "On the ship, I imagine." 

"Where?" 

"From Turkey, you know this. The _Dane_, Sunday?" LaCroix still was not following. 

Sunday looked away, thinking hard. Then they prowled across the room to the desk, picking up the police report and manifest, reading them intently. 

"What's the matter?" This from Francis, who had lost interest in the sarcophagus. 

Sunday knew LaCroix would prefer if the sarcophagus was useful, and knew that she considered it potentially dangerous. She may have considered it more so if she had seen the mess on the ship, the blood everywhere. But there were more than just loose ends in Sunday's mind, there were entire pieces that didn't click at all, and felt like they were from a different puzzle entirely.

"It says he was below decks, asleep. But if the murders were committed by a frenzied Kindred who came out of the sarcophagus, how did he survive? Why didn't the noise of the killings wake him up? Even if he didn't go out to investigate, a massacre makes a lot of noise."

LaCroix frowned, and didn't answer immediately. She glanced at Strauss, who was watching the fledgling with a benign curiosity.

"Perhaps he takes sleeping tablets?" Francis didn't sound like he was arguing, just devil's advocating. 

"The whole crew was killed violently, but not him. The killer opened doors, stalked the whole ship, and then either opened, or got back into, the sarcophagus - because there were bloodied handprints on it - but left Dr. Johansen alive. _Why?_"

The mood in the room was palpable interest in Sunday, but they didn't care, interested only in the truth, or as close as they could get to it. 

"Offhand, I cannot offer you a reason, but I understand your concerns. And I agree that the story as we know it is missing vital components. There are any number of guesses we might make without concrete evidence." LaCroix navigated carefully, aware of the Primogen in the room and how they might weigh her words differently than the words of a Ventrue Elder. She was following along with _that_ line of reasoning, though. 

"If only our Primogen in charge of Camarilla intelligence were actually intelligent," Ouija complained, "Golden, if you're listening, you're useless." 

Strauss' gaze had, over the course of the conversation about Dr. Johansen and the murders on the Dane, gradually returned to the sarcophagus. All at once, he moved toward it purposefully, and LaCroix stiffened imperceptibly. 

"Mr. Strauss..." 

"A moment, Prince LaCroix. Tremere are as versed in matters of occult objects as the Ventrue are versed in leadership. Neonate, where were the handprints? Come demonstrate for me." 

Sunday followed Strauss over, demonstrating with their gnarled paws, "Here. Close to the middle... like this." 

Strauss repeated the gesture once or twice, pursing his lips, pressing the gloved hand to his chin, inordinately interested in this aspect of the sarcophagus. Ouija and Francis were watching with the interest of spectators who loved a good show, while LaCroix was just barely concealing her impatience. 

"There's a picture." Sunday showed Strauss the police document they'd stolen, and the Tremere held it up in comparison against the sarcophagus. 

"What does this prove?" LaCroix asked, finally, "And does it get us any closer to _opening_ the sarcophagus?" 

"I'm not certain what it proves. I'm only certain of some disturbing facts. There's no blood here." Strauss indicated nearer the head region, "Where a reclining occupant would pull across with one hand to close it on themself. If anything, LaCroix, it indicates that the sarcophagus was opened from without... one handed, here, in the middle. And closed, how would you close it from without, Sunday?" 

Sunday put one hand to each side of the lid, fingers gripping the underside. "Like this. Do you think Dr. Johansen closed it? If - maybe he's a ghoul, and he didn't kill anyone, so he had no blood on his hands?"

"Lot of ifs," Ouija offered, but not unkindly. "It's possible, but I wouldn't put money on it." 

The Tremere was silent, brooding for several seconds, and then, decisively turned away from it, "A pity it was cleaned before being sent to the museum. But not a pity that it cannot be opened. I dislike it, Prince LaCroix. I strongly urge that it not be opened." 

LaCroix's jaw tightened. "So noted. Now, then, we are burning moonlight, so if there's nothing further, I should like to get back to work." 

"And I'd like to get back to not doing work," Ouija agreed, bowing smoothly, "Good evening." The flamboyant Toreador left with the young Ventrue Primogen, and Sunday watched them go, then looked up as Strauss touched their shoulder gently. 

"Thank you for your assistance, neonate." Strauss acknowledged, "I will - reflect - on this matter, but please come to me if you discover anything further. By your leave, Prince." He exited, and Sunday glanced back at LaCroix. Even with the triumph of the sarcophagus' retrieval, there was a shadow cast, and not by the inability to open it. 

Sunday gave it a few moments, then approached the table and stood silently as LaCroix shuffled through paperwork, and offered back the police documents. LaCroix took them, looking up uncertainly at them, the innocent face with discordantly haunted expression. 

"If you don't want to tell me what's wrong, my Prince, I won't press." 

LaCroix's lips parted without sound, then she risked, "That's the second time you've called me that. And neither with witnesses."

Sunday's eyebrows lifted. "They don't need to know how deep my loyalty runs unless they misstep." 

There was a decided _rustle_ from Sheriff Jawara's position, and they caught a flash of wickedly curved fang before the Sheriff put the smile away. LaCroix just looked shocked, as if the last year had been mostly a blur of disrespect and ingratitude, so much so that she was unsure what to do with this. Then she steepled her fingers. 

"I'm very glad to hear you say that," She arranged her words with care. "As for - my other problem, I am hesitant to burden you with anything that I think is beyond your power to solve." _Or something that would cause you to mistrust me, or hate me, as some of the others do._ "Even Bertram Tung doesn't know the half of it." _I sincerely hope._

"You're never a burden."

The immediacy and sincerity of the response made LaCroix yearn, suddenly, for it to be true. Her life prior to becoming Kindred had been brutal, disappointing, and short. No matter how she dressed it up, joining Napoleon's army at the twilight of his success was just a forerunner for the disaster of her afterlife, and no matter how hard she tried... 

Well, what was the harm in asking Sunny's opinion? Not by telling them the whole truth, but if she was careful about the framing, it should stay comfortably in her control. 

"In an ideal world, I should like to give the Anarchs here a thorough education on their place within the Camarilla superstructure. We, the Ventrue, are the public servants of the Kindred race. Mr. Rodriguez is under the impression that to be an Anarch means they have nothing to do with the Camarilla, no responsibility toward it, or vice versa. This is wrong. That, in a very compressed fashion, is the difficulty. I believe Ming Xiao," And there was the hated name, by necessity, "Is utterly oblivious to the degree of factional discord between us. Otherwise we would all be dead. What stays her hand is fear of the unified Camarilla-Anarch front, which doesn't exist." 

Sunday paused, absorbing all that, and coming, gradually, to recognize the name, to put it into context. "Have you tried talking to her?" 

LaCroix's mouth opened, closed, and then opened again, "I can't trust her. The Kuei-Jin as a cultural group has little in common with us. I don't doubt a labored peace could be brokered in time, with mutual understanding. No one is incapable of getting along with us, short of the wolves and hunters, but ...she, specifically, is a warlord. Believe me, I can tell." 

The fledgling nodded once, accepting, and then, "Nines seems really opposed to talking to you." 

"Yes." The single word carried the frustration of a dozen failed endeavors. 

"Leave it with me." 

Sunday made a quick stop in Santa Monica, planning to retrieve some old things from the first haven they'd been gifted before launching themself into Chinatown full tilt. They hadn't mentioned that plan to LaCroix, remembering that Tung had said she had worries enough and that sometimes it was better not to burden her at all.

But they didn't expect to see Nines so close to their apartment, so close to Mercurio's, too, with his head and upper body inside a car, tinkering with the engine. Near him, a concerned and fairly attractive man stood, shifting weight from one foot to another. 

"--ever done this before, and I should know how to fix it myself. I really should. But I was so lucky to meet you out here tonight, I don't know how I can ever repay you." He had a nice voice, it suggested itself to Sunday as a familiar, read-between-the-lines queer voice. 

"You don't have to repay me. And plenty of regular mechanics miss batteries problems like this. Let it run for about thirty minutes, charge up the alternator. Then you should have enough juice to get home. _Then_ you get it to a mechanic, it's not fixed, it's just temporary." Nines wiped his hands on his shirt.

"You're filthy." The man said sympathetically, "Please let me give you something. Here, just - why don't you take my card? I'm the Art coordinator for Gallery Noir, it's the place down the street - do you like art?" 

Nines was almost baffled, but clearly pleased. "I know what I like." 

"That's what I enjoy hearing. It's Pierre LaBeau. If you just give me a ring if you ever need anything... I won't forget this. Here, careful, it's an expensive suit, but..." Pierre leaned in to kiss Nines on the cheek, and the Anarch leader actually snorted in pleasant surprise. 

"If I got that from helping stranded motorists too often, I'd start expecting it. Then I couldn't call myself a good Samaritan." Nines teased, putting the card away as Pierre got into the working car, waved, and drove off. 

"That was nice of you." Sunday appeared in the safety of the alley nearby, with the loud comment because they didn't enjoy looming suddenly and scaring people.

Nines walked toward their building with an acknowledging nod, glad to see Sunny, "Actually, kid, I came to see you." 

"I'm flattered. Are you here to help me with Barabus?" Sunday opened the door and let Nines up, and then followed the Anarch. "I won't be your enemy if you tell me no. I won't ever be your enemy, if I can help it, Nines. I really like you." 

"Yeah? Thanks. I did think it over, and I am gonna help you with Barabus, but I have two conditions."

The Nosferatu locked their apartment door. "Name them." 

"One. You don't go telling LaCroix that I bend over for the Camarilla. I'm doing this for you - not them. It doesn't change how I feel about the Camarilla, and nothing ever will." 

Sunday didn't bother hiding the disappointment. "And two?" 

"If it starts looking dangerous, no heroics. You bail. I don't want to see any more five minute old vampires dusted by Kuei-Jin. You disappear, you run, you do whatever you need to do. I can take care of myself." 

"Oh, I remember when you almost blew yourself up to kill those Sabbat on my behalf, and I'm still not sure if you were bluffing." 

"Neither were they. That's why it worked." 

Sunday thought about that, wondering at Nines. He was intriguing, a contradiction in many ways. Gentle, but fiery. Compassionate and stubborn as anything. They wasn't sure if they could convince him that the Camarilla was worth more than his contempt, but they could see why LaCroix hesitated to start a war with the Anarchs. And not just because of the Kuei-Jin. They packed some blood, money, and a set of lockpicks, but no guns. Nines was evidently confused, glancing at the handgun on their bedside table, but they didn't elaborate. 

If they had to start shooting people, in their mind, they'd already failed.


	8. Little Trouble in Big Chinatown

Before Nines showed them to his van, which was a sad and somewhat beat up old thing that was a point-A-to-point-B model, Sunday took him to visit Tung's hideaway. The Elder was present, kicked back on the mattress and pawing through a whole sheaf of what looked like stolen manila envelopes full of photographs, documents and maps. 

"Fledgling! Excellent. And Mr. Rodriguez. I've been looking forward to meeting you again. If you're helping us out, then know this. We have long memories for those who assist us." 

"I don't do things for favors." Nines returned evenly, "And I don't play Camarilla games."

Tung looked like that confirmed a suspicion he had, and he purred, "Life just goes so much smoother when everyone's civic-minded, that's all. I want you to know we're not taking it for granted. 'We', the Nosferatu. Not us, the Camarilla." 

Nines looked interested. "There's a difference?" 

The pile of papers was set to one side, and Tung sat up, warming to his audience. "Look. Real talk. You Brujah like that, right? You're really young, and you didn't have a Sire. You're also terminally honest, and that's why people like you; it's a rarity in the human world, too. I understand. _I_ like you, cupcake. I think the Kindred world at large benefits from having people like you. But good intentions can only take you so far when you have bad intel. And you know so little about the Camarilla."

The interest flickered, then Nines looked to the papers, for somewhere to look that wasn't that orange-black eyed intensity. "I know what I need to know, that they're double dealing and crooked. Nothing's surface-level with them." 

"You could just as easily be describing Isaac Abrams. The only difference is, the Baron's not accountable to public opinion." 

"And LaCroix is?" 

"Yes. It might shock you, but LaCroix doesn't want to fight the Anarchs. She'd much rather come to the table; Ventrue always do. They're born diplomats."

That was a very different take from Smiling Jack's _born in a boardroom_ comment, but Sunday was quiet, letting Tung handle it for the moment. They liked the Elder more every time they spoke to him, and found his quiet, self-aware opinions - even in heated conversations like this - were helpful. 

"You ask me, Toreador should never be in leadership positions." Tung continued, more gently, "They're just not suited to it."

"And what are Brujah suited for?" 

Nines was surprising Sunday more with the easygoing tone, the lack of combativeness. 

"Keeping the Camarilla well-behaved. Making sure they serve the will of the Kindred under them. You think it matters more what the Inner Circle is doing, or what's going on in your own backyard? You can keep on being an Anarch and improve the local Camarilla. It's not a zero sum game." 

"It sounds like you think LaCroix's a public servant." Nines challenged idly.

Tung opened his hands, "I call em how I see em, Rodriguez. You and I both know she didn't roll in and kill the Anarchs to begin with. Then you spent the next year being a thorn in her side while she kept the Kuei-Jin off your backs."

"Yeah. Guess I figured I knew how you saw it already." Nines exited, calm, to wait for Sunday outside. The Nosferatu fledgling looked after him, then down at the Elder. 

"I'm sorry. He's been through a lot." Sunday crouched, earnestly, "I'd like some way to make it easier for him. But if I can't do that, then I want to at least keep everyone from killing each other. I really think if I could just get them in the same room together..." 

Tung laughed, softly, "When you say it, I can almost believe it. Here, I got you a few maps of Chinatown. It's nothing kine couldn't scrape together, but I don't want to get too close myself, and I won't send Knox, either. So this is the best I can do for you."

"It's plenty. Thank you, Bertram." Sunday backed up to leave, "I hope I see you again soon." 

"I hope I see you again at all." Tung admitted, "Good luck." 

Sunday found the back of Nines' van quite roomy and convenient. They had endurance enough to use the sewers as a regular form of transport, but with Nines at the wheel, it was a lot faster. At Sunday's request, they listened to a local news station, in part because Sunday felt guilty about not having enough time to chase up the Gimble-Carson thing. Even so, in a city like Santa Monica, the disappearance of Carson might not register as newsworthy, and they were disappointed to hear nothing further by the time Nines announced, "Here we are." 

He shut off the engine, and the two sat in mutually companionable silence as Sunday looked over the maps. Nines was the first to speak. 

"How are we going to do this?" 

Sunday folded up the map, after a few failed attempts, "Gary Golden recommended I question Ming Xiao directly." 

"Tell you the truth, I'm not feeling that plan, kid."

"Me neither." The Nosferatu pondered, then, "If we start asking questions of anyone, we can assume it will get back to her eventually. Not right away, but within a few hours or so. We should be out of Chinatown well before sunrise." 

Really, Sunday wanted to be out of Chinatown right that minute. This was keyed up, distressing adrenaline, different from the museum, or the Dane. The supernaturals here - they knew about Kindred, and would recognize a Nosferatu. They'd already captured one much older and presumably more skillful than Sunday. The edge that the fledgling had around humanity was not viable. 

They exited from the back of the van, stretching their limbs in the parking lot, and then scaled the nearby wall like a panther, up and onto the fire escape, and from there gained the top of a building. As a general rule, kine didn't bother looking up: only daytime tourists gawked at big buildings. They glanced back to see Nines following with a shade more difficulty, absent talons to grip the stone, and offered a hand. 

Nines took it, surveying the city from the superior aerial position. 

"Alright. That's Ming Xiao's HQ." He pointed. "We've actually tried an underground assault on it a few years back. Didn't work even a little bit. There's a lot of them clustered around the place, all hours of the day and night." 

"She must not be popular with the whole of the local Kuei-Jin, then. Otherwise Chinatown's city limits would be enough protection." Sunday observed, which made the Anarch glance at them funny. 

Nines resumed, "...So. I don't think she'd be keeping Kindred prisoners anywhere near where she sleeps. If anyone tied her to that, LaCroix would have a concrete reason to break the ceasefire she put up as soon as they rolled in. Someone else in town has a prison complex, probably on her bankroll. I'd guess a big building, something industrial? A warehouse, or someplace with upper-ground levels to discreetly bar kine. Bet the cops are bought, but you still don't want reporters or punk kids stumbling on an operation." Nines walked as they talked, jumping the small gap between two buildings. Sunday trailed along after. 

"Do you think the Kuei-Jin and the Camarilla are similar?" Sunday asked. 

Nines gave them a Look, "One of my conditions should've been to ban you from talking politics on the job."

Sunday beamed, a jagged mess of happy shark teeth, waiting. 

"--The Kuei-Jin have one thing in common with the Camarilla. Both of them would prefer if the Anarchs were gone." Nines tested the integrity of the gutter piping, then climbed down and stopped at the mouth of an alleyway. "If you're asking if I think the Kuei-Jin are pure evil, then no, not really, but I do know they're a lot quicker to want to kill Kindred than LaCroix is to want to kill us. It must benefit her somehow. Maybe she doesn't want to give Ming Xiao an opening." 

"Maybe she just doesn't like needless violence, Nines." 

"What, didn't she follow Napoleon into war when she was breathing? Or did I hear wrong?"

Sunday was quiet, at first, and then offered, "I think she was very young. Like you." 

It sounded like Nines didn't want to admit that he was being worn down, "At least until we're done with this thing, can you not compare her to me? It's distracting." He tried the door to the warehouse, surprised to find it was unlocked this late at night, and looked to Sunday. It was still trespassing, Sunday's expression seemed to suggest. And Nines' suggested that he loved the sound rules made when they were broken. 

The Anarch entered, Sunday behind him but abruptly _not_ behind him when they became aware of lights in the upstairs office. The Nosferatu just dissolved into smoke and memory the moment Nines looked away. That was fine, he was expecting to have to be the face. He headed right to the stairs, taking them two at a time, and although he moved like a cat in silence, the occupant opened the door and met him in the doorway. 

"Evening." Nines failed to assert dominance, taken completely off guard by that. "I want to ask you a few questions." 

"Good evening. I am Zhao. Please come in; I always have time for a soldier." The man exited back into the office, "And your friend, too. Where did they go?" 

"I think it's better if ... it's just you and me, for now." Nines maneuvered, following him inside, "I'm here looking for someone. Barabus. Have you heard that name?" 

"No. I am sorry, I don't think I can help you." 

Nines wasn't discouraged, "What about Ming Xiao?" 

The man laughed. It was a knowing laugh, "Everyone knows where to find Ming Xiao. And I don't think you want to see her."

Sunday watched from outside the open doorway, strangely protective of Zhao despite hardly knowing him. He exuded the same aura of gentle awareness of the harsh realities of life that Tung did. 

"Right, ok. How do I go about finding - my friend - without letting Ming Xiao know? It's in and out. I don't want any trouble with anyone here." 

Zhao assessed Nines from his chair. "I know that." He pointed to the grenade, "You are only a danger to yourself, soldier. You should protect yourself better; I am sure your life is a precious gift to somebody." 

Nines blinked. "It's --Armando, and I'm not really a soldier, but I appreciate the thought. Can you help us or not?" 

"I cannot. But I may be able to point you toward someone who can." He wrote down an address, and a name, and handed the paper over to Nines, who took it and put it into his pocket after a careless glance.

"Thanks." Nines said, a trifle awkwardly, "I'll keep this in mind."

"There is no need." Zhao was tranquil, turning back to his work. "I have done enough wicked things in my life. To do a good thing, like this, is a rare opportunity. Please consider what I have told you." 

Seemingly dismissed, Nines backed up, and Sunday moved out of his way before following him out into the cool night air. Sunday didn't think it had been too easy, but there were certainly elements of it that felt strange. They took the note from Nines, who also fished out the business card Pierre had given him. 

"You want to keep that?" Nines asked, "He was flirting with me, but I don't need to call in favors from kine either." 

Sunday tucked it away carefully, and then reviewed the note. "It's a noodle bar?" 

The Anarch rolled his shoulders, "I thought he might be trying to get rid of us." 

The opinion, so immediate and certain of its cynicism, made Sunday's heart twinge a bit in sympathy. They put a hand on Nines' arm, trying to find something non-patronizing to reassure him that not everybody was out to screw him, especially people who gave him good advice and kindness. Maybe in a perverse way, LaCroix rolling in and wanting to talk diplomacy struck Nines as _too good to be true,_ and unsafe. Surely everyone was treacherously out for themselves? 

Sunday had not thought so, and still didn't. There were bad Kindred, but they seemed no different from bad human beings, in both frequency and intensity. 

"We won't lose much time by checking it out." Sunday decided on, and the Anarch shrugged, trailing behind as they consulted Tung's maps. True to the Nosferatu's word, it was only five or six minutes at the outside before they discovered the place, coming up from behind in the alleyway. "This is it. The brochure says their juicy pork buns are great." 

"Kid, I haven't eaten anything since I died, and I'm not about to start now. Come on in with me." At Sunday's uncertain expression, "I think your face might make em slip if they know something or not. Assuming this isn't a waste of time." 

He circled around the building, finding the door locked, and jimmied the lock until it gave with a finesse that Sunday could only envy. Then he opened it and let himself in. Whatever he'd been expecting, 'young Japanese lady with a robot arm' was not anywhere near the top of the list, and confusion flourished freely on his face as both reflexively drew weapons and stared each other down. Sunday slipped smoothly between them. 

"Hold on. We're just here to talk." 

Nines looked like he wanted to put paid to that at once, but mercifully held fire. The hunter, (for hunter it was, Sunday realized belatedly that few other people would carry a katana in public), also lowered her sword, but only by an inch and only by virtue of Sunday's obvious desire to keep them _both_ from attacking. 

"Then talk, yokai. I do not have much time." 

"Someone gave us this address and told us you might be able to help us find - another 'yokai' like me, who disappeared. I owe it to him to try to find him." 

Yukie examined Sunday's face for a second, and although the Nosferatu knew that their clan distinction took different forms, a non-initiate would likely be able to find similarity among them. Her expression lightened after a moment. "I have not seen another yokai like you. But I know where you might find him." 

Nines groaned from behind Sunday. "We're gonna be at this all night." 

"If you don't want to know, then I won't tell you." Yukie sheathed her sword, "I am very busy." 

She didn't look busy. She also looked very young, and very upset, and Sunday fought the impulse to inquire and investigate where they didn't belong. They tilted their head at her, hoping she had at least a shard of human kindness, "I'd like to know, please. He might be in danger. The Kuei-Jin leader in this city doesn't like Kindred like us."

Yukie leaned on the counter. "Yes. Ming Xiao. I have done research on her as well, to find out if she is paying, or protecting, the bakemono that I hunt, who killed someone dear to me. But I do not think she is, even if she is very dirty with ...other politics." 

"You're not kidding." Nines confirmed, unnecessarily. Sunday was proud of him so far, he wasn't letting his discomfort with Kuei-Jin serve as a distraction even if he plainly wanted to leave Chinatown as soon as possible.

Sunday looked hopeful as Yukie took the map from them, and spread it on the counter. "Here. This building, the big office one. It is just outside of Chinatown. And there are no yokai who run it, I do not think, but I cannot know for sure. As I say, it is not my business, but she has paid for it. And that it is not within her home, and she has made an effort to cover her tracks... This tells me it is a bad place. And you should be careful if you go there." 

Nines surveyed the location, deciding it was a good enough lead. "Thanks, kid." He turned to go, but Sunday lingered.

"If you want help... hunting this bakemono? Please don't do it alone. If you just wait a little while I can come back and help you." 

The hunter's flinty expression wavered at that appeal. "I did think your eyes were kind, for a monster. If you survive, and return, I will accept your help."


	9. The Stirring of Leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Bad things happen when the Fledgling doesn't clear out Hollywood's sewers in time, either.)

That was the first night LaCroix had trouble getting hold of Sunday, and she wondered if something had finally bested the oddly likeable Nosferatu, rerouting her efforts to contact Tung instead. The Nosferatu was en route to a different appointment, in the sewers below with surprisingly good cell phone reception. 

It was one of the numbers he'd left with her early on when she arrived, and for the most part, LaCroix had respected his time and left the Elder undisturbed, so to hear her calling now was intriguing. 

"Oh, Sunday. They left not long ago with Nines Rodriguez. Headed for Chinatown." 

LaCroix wasn't sure which of those two things to be more concerned by, partially resigned to never again seeing the talented Fledgling alive, and thanked Bertram before hanging up. She moved to the window, feeling the sarcophagus behind her like a physical presence, a discomfort that she couldn't place. She tried to push aside whatever Sunday was doing. The Nosferatu was a free agent, and likely had not discovered anything untoward about the Kuei-Jin... And it probably wouldn't behoove Ming Xiao to reveal herself, either. 

She ran a hand through her hair, trying to refocus on other matters. An initiation ceremony for Dev/Null as Malkavian Primogen could be safely waived, in part because Dev/Null didn't seem the type to enjoy pomp, and in part because there were few other Malkavian Kindred to feel disrespected by the quiet instating of a new representative. She still needed to figure out how to deal with Gary Golden without alienating the rest of his clan... Her support with the Elders was in tatters. Only Tung really seemed to like her, though it was possible she was projecting Ouija's disregard. 

Of course, there was also Smiling Jack, being very careful not to overstep his bounds in public. Ah, and Bach. One didn't just hire mercenaries to handle murderous hunters who could find their high-profile Ventrue targets with ease. That whole situation sat uneasily in her gut. 

And then, with a shriek of rending metal and breaking glass, she had far more immediate problems. Jawara was already moving, for all the good it would do, throwing open the far door and revealing a twisted abomination of limbs, inhumanly graceful in its motion. 

A _vozhd._

With the detachment born of pure panic, LaCroix was grateful that the multi-limbed war machine was bending back the elevator doors that led down to the sewer. This, rather than any of the others, indicated the Sabbat was still practicing a sliver of discretion for the sake of the Masquerade. Likely because they understood that human hunters might have infiltrated the local area to watch LaCroix's comings and goings. 

The detachment and frozen calculation broke as Jawara threw himself bodily at the threat, and LaCroix was relieved to see he did not tap his own zulo shape, that it was not, to him, a significant danger. She slammed the heavy doors behind him and threw the bolt home, casting a frantic look to the sarcophagus. 

Dear Ventru. That's what they were here for. And if the local Sabbat leader had one _vozhd_, and was using it semi-openly, then he was connected enough to have more and reckless enough to employ them. There were evacuation procedures for this, she had extremely well trained security personnel at the top levels of the building, one of the many Kindred-specific uses of Ventrue money that would be unnecessary if her clan simply played the human game for their own gain and remained stealth. But she doubted riot-gear would hold up to _vozhd_ strength, and she wasn't sure how to cope with the entire building being slaughtered. 

A week or so from that night she had been scheduled to host the local Gerousia, and Ventrue when pressed would fight to defend one another, but that was of no help to her tonight. She, and Jawara, were the only Kindred in the building, potential occupant of the sarcophagus notwithstanding. 

She picked up the phone, dialing down to reception and tapping the ever-loyal ex-officer Chunk. 

"Charles, I need you to evacuate the building immediately. There is a terrorist attack in progress." 

The truth was always best couched inside half-truths, not the armor of outright lies. In this case, there was a hesitation from Chunk that may well have suited a complete lie, like a fire. 

"Do you need me to help? It doesn't feel right just leavin ya up there." 

"That is above your paygrade. Simply ensure the night staff are evacuated." LaCroix hung up before any further discussion could be had, trying to school calm and looking about to see if she could repurpose anything as a blockade. No real point to that, though. If Jawara couldn't handle the situation, no one else was coming to help. The fledgling, even if they had been so inclined, was too far away and impossible to inform. 

There was a curious silence outside, though. She moved back cautiously to the door. 

"Jawara?" 

Nothing. Her Sheriff was a Tzimisce of few words, but did speak when engaged directly, and now the silence was more concerning than anything. Was it possible--... Moments later, she received an answer. The door shuddered in its frame, the paintwork cracking and splintering, and then as the Prince backed away, multiple _vozhd_ caved in the door and parted ways for a small reptilian Tzimisce in a bright red coat.

"Prince Sebastian LaCroix." Archbishop Andrei greeted, "Forgive me for my rude intrusion into your home. I am here to collect my sarcophagus." 

LaCroix didn't move as two of the big, almost hypnotic war machines passed by her to lift the sarcophagus, as Andrei pointed to it. Impotent rage lit in her veins, and she bit back the words she longed to say. _You can't do this._ He could. And he was.

Jawara was older and stronger than him, but lay clubbed into unconsciousness in the hall, betrayed by the close quarters and multiple opponents. Tzimisce hospitality had been good for preserving his life, at least. She recognized it and wondered if she would be subject to the same mercies. It seemed so, given Andrei's lack of immediate violence or threat. 

"There will be reprisal." She levied instead, "You don't know what you're doing." 

"I? You are the one with such a dangerous artifact sitting so close to you, Prince." Ironic that it seemed Andrei was dead set on being polite and well mannered. "You have nothing to lose by its disposal and everything to gain. I am merely asking you to be grateful that I have taken it away from you. I am letting you survive, otherwise." 

LaCroix didn't comment, her jaw tight, feeling fury, humiliation, distress all intermingling. This was not what she had imagined, when she'd arrived a year ago, and it seemed Andrei understood what she was thinking without a need to communicate it - even worse.

"You see, your Camarilla here is not as healthy as it is in other places. You have overextended yourself. Do not think I will make more trouble for you than is advantageous for me, however..." Andrei almost soothed, "You are a winsome buffer for me against the Kuei-Jin, at least to my superiors. To me, personally? The Ventrue are perhaps the only clan of the Camarilla that I respect. Goodbye, Prince LaCroix." 

"Wait--" LaCroix scrambled after him, noticing as he turned away that there were spikes of bone jutting haphazardly from his shoulders, though his frame was still humanoid, "--If what you say about hospitality is true, then leave peacefully. Don't kill any of my staff." 

"Would that you had asked me sooner. Likely they are already dead. I had the ground floor covered, with _zealous_ new recruits. ...Oh, don't look so distressed, Prince. They're only human. Easily replaced."

He left, and LaCroix did not attempt to stop him. Could not, could only stare after him for a few moments, then at the gaping ruins of the basement level elevator. She would need to have that discreetly fixed as soon as possible, she thought, but then... 

Chunk. 

Bypassing the Sheriff, who would be fine - he had had worse, the melodramatic lummox! - she took the stairs, superhuman endurance lending her the speed that the elevator's unbearable slowness would not. And with each step her thoughts clicked over to betrayal. 

Step. Who had let the Sabbat grow so powerful in Los Angeles? Isaac Abrams, surely.

Step. Who had failed to inform her of this problem, while living so neighborly to Isaac? Her worthless Nosferatu Primogen, Gary Golden.

Step. Who took such a disinterest in the Camarilla's affairs that he rarely left his own Chantry and was no deterrent to Tzimisce enemies? Maximillian Strauss. 

Step. Who had such poor control over their supposed premonitions that they hadn't seen anything coming but betrayal, nonspecific? Alistair Grout, and may the four winds scatter his ashes to a foul memory. 

Step. Whose handlers found LaCroix's potential bid for Princedom in New York City a serious threat, and who had all but exiled her to this place where few listened and even fewer cooperated? Hellene Panhard.

Step. The fledgling was not at fault... They'd done a great deal for her. This was, in fact, their first night off from her assigned duties for them. She didn't think their presence tonight would have changed much. 

She finally gained the ground floor, awash with the sickening, aromatic smell of blood and gore. It hit her simultaneously; to the predator in her, like a wave of fresh baked bread. To the Ventrue, the nauseating realization of defeat, death, destruction. Wasteful and wanton. 

LaCroix stepped over bodies, listening for heartbeats, bending her predator's senses to beneficial purpose. It looked as though these were all her night staff, in the middle of the promised evac. Not even security, half of them; cleaning crew, a few office workers staying late, trying to get ahead of the curve. And Chunk, near the reception desk, with a gaping wound in the side of his throat that bubbled. But bubbles were good, in this case. Life remained. 

"Charles." 

"I'm so--rry," Chunk managed, and it was primarily LaCroix's battlefield experience that decoded the words. 

"Don't. Do not apologize." Her mind was bent on salvage. _Think._ "I have to tell you something and it is imperative that you listen and understand. I am a vampire, Charles." 

Chunk looked at her without any evidence of circulatory shock. "I know." 

"Therefore, I --_you know?_" That derailed her thoughts completely. 

Chunk took a deep, rattling breath, defensively, "This - is America... not my business." 

LaCroix's dead heart warmed even further to her employee. "I don't have much time. I can save you. But I don't wish to do it without your understanding."

Chunk was quiet for a moment. "Make me--one, too?" 

"No. I can avoid that, for now, I think. Do you consent to drink my blood and become stronger for a time?"

The wounded man didn't need long to think about that, in comparison, "Please."

She bit her wrist, bringing it to his lips, and he drank, and his racing heartbeat slowed as she licked the injury at his throat, her saliva helping to speed the wound's closure. Alone, neither blood nor saliva would have been effective enough, but within a few minutes, it was no longer life threatening. She pressed a handkerchief to it, watching the color gradually return to his face. 

"How long have you known?" She wondered, with the fear of a spy in a foreign land, an alien in human clothes, where the penalty for discovery was - at best - a quick death, how she had been discovered. 

"Long time." Chunk sounded better already, "Only got more sure... when I saw you first? You were good at keepin your lips around your teeth, but I ...saw em once, and cuz I -- I like the pictures..." He stopped, to rest, breathing heavily.

"Take your time." 

"The movies. Yanno. I got to thinkin, it'd be neat. 'Course my imagination... runs away sometimes. But then I thought. Gee. You don't really ...see much of her in the day. Any of her, actually. And all the strange people - who wanna come in to talk to ya." 

Chunk's hand found hers, squeezed it tighter, pressed to her wrist, confirmed the lack of a pulse. But it was a comfort as well as his mentality to verify, "Thanks. You saved my life." 

"It - was the Camarilla that first endangered your life. I could do no less." She clumsily squeezed back, unaccustomed to this kind of comfort, and with the Ventrue cultural emphasis on hands... how important it was to touch them and to watch them move, and to hold them powerfully, and to kiss them. "I should have offered this gift to you sooner, Charles. I was concerned. You must be quiet about what you have seen and heard. My continued survival, and the wellbeing of all the people like me, under my govern, depend on your silence."

Chunk nodded, just once. There were no jokes or off the cuff comments, just something in his eyes, in his face generally, that made her realize that at least some of his humor might be exaggerated - his perception hidden, chameleon-like, under this ribald fool's act. She gave his hand a last squeeze, then lifted it slowly to kiss his bloodied palm.

"Thank you for your loyalty to me. It is in short supply, and that makes it all the more dear." 

The ambulance came, and took Chunk to the hospital, where Sebastian was confident he would recover, and all of the dead bodies, and then, numb and hollow, she went through the routine with the police, covering up what needed to be covered. Fortunately anyone who had seen one of the abominations was now either dead or informed of the truth. By the time the police had canvassed the higher floors of the building, Jawara had recovered and removed himself from view, only climbing back down and through the window when they'd gone. 

She sat in her chair and pressed her fingertips to her temples. Not only had she lost the sole bargaining chip she'd hoped to employ against Ming Xiao, but it now lay in the hands of one of the sworn enemies of the Camarilla. It may have been better to allow the Giovanni to keep it; this branch was best described as wonkily neutral, not particularly impressed by Camarilla rules but not actively trying to goad the end of the universe in order to go out in a blaze of defiant glory. No surprise the Sabbat and Anarch movements had a mutual parent. 

"You did poorly." She informed her Sheriff, who said nothing, but whose shoulder position indicated he heard and understood. 

Failing discovery of the Sabbat's location... What could she do now? Every move she made tightened the graveyard spiral. 

Perhaps Beckett would be agreeable, in the sense that studying the sarcophagus was better than not having it at all, but she'd gotten the distinct sense that the Gangrel scholar was not prone to idle favors. Most in the Kindred community, to be fair, were not. But she had such little assistance as it was.

She called Mercurio. 

"I need you to investigate for me with some of your contacts. Find out if, in the last six months, any formerly derelict buildings have changed ownership. Title or deed. Particularly in the downtown area... but Santa Monica as well."

"I gotcha. Are you all right? You sound a little shaky." 

"That," LaCroix kept her composure, and thus her polite, genteel tone, "Is not your concern, Mercurio. Do your job with the degree of competence I have come to expect and you may go a long way to my future peace of mind." 

The sun would be rising soon, and while she felt ill prepared to sleep, she didn't have much else she could accomplish from the Tower. She sent an email to Sunday, simple without being curt; _'Please make your way to the Tower as soon as possible._' 

She went to bed, and her dreams were restless, and fearful, and fractured, and full of the eyes and the laughter of Ming Xiao.


	10. Strange Bedfellows

The office building at the limits of Chinatown's boundaries was no different than any of two hundred others that Sunday had seen and automatically blanked from their mind, back when they'd been alive. Boxy, gray and concrete, unambitious in its mediocrity, and invisible in the urban landscape. On Sunday's first reccie, they detected three external security cameras, and using a branch from a decorative potted tree nearby, jammed the swivel hinge of one so that it faced permanently away from the door they planned to use. 

They returned to Nines, loitering out near the front. 

"I think we can get in through one of the back entrances." 

"Kid, do you really think that hunter was on the level? Are you going to take intel from someone whose job description is killing people like us?" 

Sunday felt their patience ebb, though it didn't desert them completely. "Do you trust anyone? A single person?"

"Me, some days." Nines was curious to hear that tension, the breaking point into frustration that he mistook for honesty. "Tell me how you really feel." 

Sunday inhaled, more to soothe themself than anything else. "It's a self fulfilling prophecy if you assume everyone's going to hurt you. I know a lot of people have. But I've watched you for a while now and you deserve better than to live with this constant worry." 

"Thanks." The Anarch was flat, neither hostile nor sincere. "Maybe you're _too_ trusting, Sunday. Anybody who believes LaCroix..." He trailed away, looking back to the building. Notably, while he'd complained about Sunday bringing up the Camarilla in positive terms, he hadn't insisted the Nosferatu stop, or threatened to leave. He didn't seem open, but Sunday wouldn't describe him as closed, either.

"I hate rich people." Sunday said, abruptly taking a different tack, "And I don't mean people with more money than me. I mean people with so much money they could never be in danger of spending it all, the ones who never seem to own enough companies, the ones who use government loopholes to avoid paying their workers fairly, and to avoid paying taxes at all. Believe me, before I got bit, I wasn't exactly an activist, but I knew where I stood on the haves and have nots." 

"What changed?" Nines took a route around the side of the building, not minding having this debate while risking his skin, apparently, "Now you can't get enough of LaCroix." 

"Because the Prince isn't really a CEO. She uses her money to protect Kindred who've been exposed, to keep us a secret, and she makes herself a target to hunters and the Sabbat in order to do that." 

"Noblesse oblige," Nines said, with contempt. "Are you kidding? All she wants is our territory and our obedience." 

The Nosferatu was quiet for a few moments, eyeing up the back door lock, and thinking briefly on how to get into the building, rather than into Nines' head. They worked at the mechanism in silence. 

When it clicked, they reached to push open the door, but Nines grabbed their wrist and pointed to a thin wire snaking up from below, a silent alarm for unauthorized keycard entry. He licked his canines, jimmying open the housing for the alarm, and cut the wire with a pocketknife. 

"_Now_ open it." 

Sunday did so, and both entered the long, darkened corridor. The building didn't have the appearance, either from outside or from this limited perspective of the interior, of being healthily inhabited at night, which concerned Sunday that they might have the wrong building. Breaking and entering was nothing new, but violating the Masquerade was a risk they took seriously. 

Then they backtracked to what Nines had said, opening a nearby door to peer into an unoccupied janitorial closet. "You know what a real dictator would act like, because you fought the Kuei-Jin for five years." 

"And I know nobody helps people for free, that's been my lived **and** unlived reality for over ninety years." Nines kept his voice down, but firm. 

Sunday looked ... enlightened. "So that's what this is about. You don't think she's decent because nobody is decent. Even though you're helping me for nothing right n--" 

Nines heard the 'ding' of an elevator, grabbed Sunday by a leather shoulder strap and yanked them into an adjoining room, what looked like a kitchen with a walk-in freezer. In an eyeblink, he was across the room, opening the freezer door and ushering Sunday inside, almost-closing it. 

"Hey, careful, these are expensive. --Can vampires freeze to death?" Sunday was wide eyed, really thinking they should ensure the door didn't click closed completely. 

"It's gotta be at least forty below." Nines whispered, encouragingly, "And even then, your blood can stave off the frostbite for a while. Especially in dry conditions. We're fine." 

Sunday crouched, waiting, and the darkened kitchen outside blazed into light and the quiet discussion of two night guards. They strained to hear, leaning toward the crack of the door. 

"--ugliest fucker I ever did see. I thought these things were supposed to look like people." 

"Most of em do. We had that demo on it. These are the ones that go underground. Eat babies. You know, Nosferatu. Like the movie. You weren't paying attention or what?"

"I don't know. Just gives me the creeps, the way he looks at you." 

A pause, the quiet hiss of a carbonated can. "I think he's blind, actually. He looks kinda toward you but never really at you."

"Oh." Relief. "That's better." 

A grin in the other voice, "Don't get too comfortable. Bet he can track you by scent and rip your heart out if he wanted." 

Nines pushed the freezer door wide open, "And if he can't, my friend here can. Unless you both start talking--" 

Unlike an action movie scene, one of the guards panicked outright and shot in Nines' general direction, while the other - the one who had seemed more initially disturbed - turned, and ran screaming for the door. 

"Ah crap," Nines philosophized.

While the Anarch lunged to disarm the threat, Sunday loped forward to catch the escaping security guy, digging claws into his shirt and yanking him away from the door as easily as if he were a child. 

"Easy, we just want to know where our friend is," Sunday soothed, answering the guard's frantic babbling, "I won't hurt you. I won't. I promise. It's okay." 

Twisting the armed guard's weapon away, Nines sank his teeth into the kine's throat, which was not reassuring for Sunday's prisoner to witness, but Nines didn't kill the man, only drank enough to lull him into that strange mortal stupor. 

"It's the first floor D wing warehouse room! The Mandarin keeps him there!"

"The _Mandarin?_" Nines repeated incredulously, and Sunday intuitied it was more a question of _What kind of name is that?_ than an acknowledgment of an ancient foe. "Alright." Prepared to accept it as a potential truth, Nines pulled the unresisting kine along behind him, "Let's find somewhere to put the bodies so they don't find us too quick, huh?" 

"We're not killing them." Sunday reiterated. 

The Anarch paused. "You heard what they said. They know about us. They're on the Kuei-Jin payroll. What more do you need?" 

"Barabus disappeared a week ago. They're obviously aware they need to keep quiet. Just handcuff them to the table there and let's go." 

For a moment, both Kindred were wholly opposed, and Sunday could feel the bullheaded tension from the young Brujah, the potential resistance to being _ordered_, however gently. No wonder the situation with LaCroix was a powderkeg. Not only did Nines hate to be commanded, but if he genuinely believed no one in the world could be trusted or worked genuinely from altruistic motives, then to him, LaCroix was a one-two punch of deception and authoritarianism. 

Then Nines backed down, and complied, securing both guards as instructed. For a minute there it looked like he was going to do something _impulsive_, and as he exited into the hall, he acknowledged, "You're gonna get yourself killed with that bleeding heart." 

"I've done okay so far." 

"Because I saved your ass twice already." 

Sunday didn't want an argument, just a discussion, so they lapsed briefly and then turned it neatly into, "I'm grateful for that. _And_ for this." 

The set shoulders of Sunday's companion gave little away, but then, surprisingly, "Sorry. I know. I'm just worried about you. You're putting yourself in a lot of danger, and listening to people like that Elder Nosferatu." 

"I like Tung." Sunday remained gentle, "He's sweet." 

"You like everybody." It was almost a question, but enough of a statement that Sunday could elect to let it stand. 

Silence. Sunday evaluated the risk of this becoming a fullblown disagreement, remembered Tung warning them once that the Anarchs were _difficult to discuss things with,_ and risked it. 

"I don't like Smiling Jack." 

It was less of a risk that Nines would storm out and leave Sunday to face the wrath of humans working for the Kuei-Jin (or Kuei-Jin themselves, if there were any in the facility), and more of a risk that it might get back to Jack himself. Sunday didn't consider it in their own best interest for Jack to understand how profoundly distasteful he was to them. 

"Yeah? Why not?" Nines approached the D wing, helpfully emblazoned in paint stencil, and slowed, alerting to the sound of heartbeats nearby. 

"You remember you said the key to a good society was to get a few people around you who weren't assholes? He's an asshole." 

"Let's define some terms, kid." 

"Okay. I think an asshole is someone who loudly only cares about themself, and who finds the suffering of other people entertaining."

That was a pretty solid definition, and Nines had to agree that it was a fair assessment... or at least didn't _disagree_, because he was quiet about it. He didn't come out swinging in Jack's defense, though. Of all the Anarchs, Nines seemed the least susceptible to things like unreasoning hero worship. 

That was perhaps the firmest, and most certain opinion Sunday had shown him, and he lingered with it to digest it. Sunday had earned his lack of immediate, reflexive distress. If Sunday liked a lot of people, it meant more when they didn't like a certain person. Even if that certain person was spending a lot of time at the Last Round. 

Whatever he _was_ planning to say, he didn't finish. Inside the room with the vaulted ceiling and nondescript storage containers, a Nosferatu slept in a locked cell, and 'slept' was a generous term. It looked closer to torpor, not that Sunday knew how to identify such things. The Kindred had been cut open, vivisected, it looked like, with his shirt pulled up to expose the terrible wound. Sunday had seen similar injuries on the sewer-bound _vozhd_, and for a moment they saw only red.

"This door looks like it takes a fancy keycard. We can't pick it conventionally, and if we try to break it down, they'll know..." Nines didn't realize, hadn't looked at Sunday, assumed them so mild mannered that it would be impossible to get a rise out of them like this, but when he turned and realized the fledgling was furious, he reacted... unusually.

"Hey." Nines touched Sunday's arm, their side, drew them close without constricting, into a loose hug. "I'm here. Look at me. Focus on me." 

Sunday's focus wandered to Nines' face, feeling for the first time the stirrings of the explosive, gunpowder rage married to their new, gnarled form of corded muscle and sinew. The knowledge that an impulsive swipe could decapitate a man, that Sunday had the physical strength of a bear and greater endurance to match. This, then, was firsthand experience of what they called 'the Beast'. Ugly rage. Fear. Starvation. The inability to maintain control over the self, in whatever way, for whatever reason. Sunday felt ...lost, disconnected, briefly dissociated from the stress of all that had happened and the whispering worry of what might yet happen. Lightheaded hatred that urged an instant and permanent retaliation for wrongdoing gave them a splitting headache to resist, and it was fortunate the architect of Barabus' injuries was not within easy reach.

"You need to go home?" Nines was saying, as if he'd seen this before, and he might have. Rage could get someone killed, as easily as fear.

"No." Sunday forced themself to rejoin the present, settling back into control. A lack of injury or discomfort, otherwise, helped. "I'm fine. I'm sorry. Is he dead?" 

Nines let go of the Nosferatu, wholly calm in his own right. "No. But I understand why you're pissed. This is why I've been fighting the Kuei-Jin for five goddamn years. Whoever this is is trying to find better ways to kill us and using him like a test dummy, and that guy didn't do shit to them. I don't even know him." 

"I have some blood." Sunday fished it out of a side pocket. 

"It won't do any good if we can't get in there. This is bulletproof glass. We can get through it, but it'll take time, and they'll know we're doing that, too, just like the door. It'll have an alarm." 

They appeared to be at an impasse. And with the guards who Sunday had spared awaiting discovery, it was only a matter of time before the Mandarin was aware his facility's security had been breached. 

"Why don't we try to spoof the keycard?" Sunday asked, digging out a small pen sized electronic device. "Back when I was alive, in Hollywood, a lot of the security doors made by Unity-Tech had keycard locks that answer to a specific 32 bit code..." 

"You lost me at spoof." Nines admitted, "I do the old school breaking and entering. Coathangers, lockpicks, a boot to the door. And some wired alarms. But if you can pull this off, LaCroix is lucky to have you, 'cuz that would be real useful for us." 

Sunday knelt at the door and examined the lock. "I hope you'll talk to her. You don't need to be against each other. You can benefit each other, and - look at what's going on here. LaCroix wouldn't let this happen if she could stop it."

The doorlock clicked and then opened, and the Nosferatu put the little device away. "That's probably the best thing I ever bought online." 

Barabus stirred as they approached, and it was the first time in a while that Sunday saw relief blossom in someone's eyes when he saw their face and identified them as a Nosferatu. In this individual, Tung had been correct. The clan seemed to trust and look out for itself. Sunday offered the bloodbag out, but Nines, coming up behind them and getting a better measure of the injury, offered, "I don't think that's going to help much. Even fresh human blood might not do it. He's close to torpor." 

"What's that mean?" Sunday leaned down over the cot, fingers twitching as if they longed to work some healing alchemy over the wounds. 

"It's like a vampire coma. Sometimes if they slip into it they can go months or even years before they come out... it's the most vulnerable state any of our kind can be in, and it happens when we've been badly hurt." Nines suspected the injuries were worse than it appeared. It was possible that the facility had run more intrusive experiments on Barabus and he was healing the unseen damage first.

Sunday lowered their wrist to Barabus' semiconscious face. "Here. Can you swallow?" 

"Are you serious?" Nines asked, but of course Sunday was.

"I'll drink the bloodbag myself, if we have to fight our way out. Vampire blood is better than human blood for injuries, right?"

Nines just looked at them, speechless for a change, and then, with an air of helplessness, "Sure." _Just give a complete stranger your blood. Risk them getting attached to you, even._

Barabus bit, and drank lustily, as if he had been half starved. If he'd been missing a little while, Sunday suspected they hadn't given him human blood to drink, and although animals suited Nosferatu fine for standard operating procedures, they were practically useless for healing. Now that they'd had a chance to really assimilate the situation, they was less furious than before, they could be clinical. 

They drew back from Barabus after a minute, licking their own punctures closed, and then drained the bag. They'd still need to carry him, blood or no blood, but Nines' definition of torpor had unsettled Sunday and they didn't like the thought of any Kindred going into a coma for years at a time. 

Sunday was just about to explain this plan to Nines, trying to figure out who should delegate the combat, if it were unavoidable, when an ear-piercing alarm rang out from above, and a voice issued from the intercomm. 

"We have a security breach. All personnel standby to present your identification cards to the Belmont team. Failure to produce your identification cards will result in immediate termination." 

"Oh." Sunday said, loping out of the prison cell at once, "Okay, we might need to fight, but let's just try to get out of here if we can." 

Nines lifted up Barabus, remembering the situation with the Sabbat, thinking it might be better to suggest that he do the fighting. Sunday was already at the door they'd entered by, and exiting into the hall, looking both ways and then ducking back inside. They didn't have a plan for this, partly because Sunday couldn't obfuscate all three of them. And they'd be pisspoor jailers indeed not to check on their prisoner first. 

The Anarch set the wounded Nosferatu down again by the wall. "Count of three, we go out there and jump em. And we _kill_, right?" 

"Right." Sunny could confirm; they had no desire to kill terrified kine who were no threat. A trained response team whose intentions were to kill Kindred was a very different matter. "One, two--" 

"Hello, Kindred." 

A woman stood in the second story doorway, which Sunday had barely registered as existing until now. She had a long, form fitting green dress, and her face... the intensity in her expression held Sunday bound. When the spell broke, they glanced aside to see Nines with his hand on his weapon, scowling fearsomely. 

"Ming Xiao." 

So this, then, was the Prince of the Kuei-Jin, Sunday supposed, and glanced between them as the woman descended with purposeful steps and no apparent fear of being shot. 

"Rude of you both not to announce yourselves in my domain. Some might even take this as a declaration of war." Ming Xiao's voice fit no emotion precisely, but danced between neutrality, superiority, and gentle condemnation in a way Sunday found both repulsive and fascinating.

"Yeah? What do you call this?" Nines gestured aside to Barabus, without moving or taking his eyes off her, as if she were a serpent who'd take the first waver of weakness to strike. 

Ming Xiao was the first to look away, following his gesture to the Nosferatu, dispassionately. Then she looked at Sunday, who intuited a brief, unusual recognition from her. _She knows me._ It could have been the look of 'another Nosferatu', perhaps, but it seemed so pointed. 

"I had no idea that my facility was being used for such purposes." Ming Xiao asserted, "To give funding to a trusted human and to have them do such things behind my back is beyond belief, but clearly it has happened." 

"Clearly." Nines was flat. Sunday was torn with mutually opposing desires to keep their hands free and to pick up Barabus and move as fast and as far from this woman as possible. She unnerved them, almost effortlessly, how she spoke... The tone, but also the words themselves. Everything about her felt slippery and uncontrollable, and dangerous, like algae covered rock. 

"I'll report to LaCroix that you didn't know this was happening if you let us go without a fight." Sunday offered, struck with inspiration. 

"Report to - ...you work for the little Kindred Prince." Ming Xiao seemed abruptly less comfortable, "And you keep Anarch company." 

Nines lifted his eyebrows, waiting for her answer without a response, and Sunday took his lead and did the same. The Kuei-Jin set her discomfort aside, straightening her back, and assented, "Please send my sincere regret that this situation happened to your Prince. Ensure that you understand the true nature of events... I know it is sometimes difficult for Kindred not to jump to conclusions." 

"You're a real piece of work." Nines watched Sunday lift up Barabus out of the corner of his eye, "I already know all I need to know about you. If you have us followed I'll kill them and send you back their heads." 

Ming Xiao watched them go without lifting a finger, but Sunday didn't relax even a hair until the three of them were back in Nines' van and Barabus was beginning to recover. They held onto him through the unpleasant, bumpy ride, mulling over how someone so small and inoffensive could radiate such powerful hostility. 

"Have you ever met her before?" Sunday asked, as Nines merged into traffic - even at two in the morning, it was pretty busy. 

"No. But I knew what she looked like." At first it sounded like Nines would sooner put the whole thing behind him, but then he added, "You're right. She's nothing like LaCroix. She's murderous. You saw it too, didn't you?" 

"Mmm." Sunday would have risked a greater word, there was something about Ming Xiao that attempted to mask itself to go about in the world, while people like Vandal showed their contempt more openly. While Sunday didn't like the blood dealer, they could respect that Vandal was as honest as circumstances allowed him to be. And if he was taking blood from a Malkavian, it was possible it affected his perceptions more than if he'd been the ghoul of a Ventrue or Toreador. Ming Xiao seemed simply and purely lethal, and intelligent enough to know she would have to pretend otherwise if she wished to find victims. 

Barabus revived slowly over the course of the journey, and by the time Nines parked behind the Tower, he was still not well enough to move or speak, but Sunday spoke softly to him about their location and purpose. 

"We taking him up there?" Nines asked, acknowledging that LaCroix would take care of the Nosferatu if possible. "I've never been inside." 

"I'd like you to come in." Sunday exited, "But - if you don't want to, then I respect that too. You've helped me a lot tonight and I'm grateful, even if you don't want anything in return."

Nines shut the ignition off, and sat there a few seconds. 

"I feel like an idiot." He confessed. 

"Why?" 

"Because I wasted a year snarling at LaCroix. She wanted me to be her Brujah Primogen, did I tell you that? I thought she was insulting me, trying to figure out how easily I'd be bought with a cushy role in her government. Everyone thinks I'm some hero for holding out against them, but I'm just fucking stubborn. I - don't know what to do. Admit it? Apologize to her? She already looks down on me."

Sunday gathered Barabus close to themself, soothing them as they groaned at the necessary motion. "I think she'd appreciate it. And I respect that you'd even think about it. I can tell her, if you want." 

"No, I have to own it." Nines decided, shutting the door, "Lead the way."


	11. A Major Accomplicement

As soon as Sunday approached the entrance to the Tower, they knew something was very wrong. There was an enormous hole and rubble scattered about, and police tape spiderwebbing the entrance. They passed Barabus to Nines, climbed up into the hole and had a quick look around. The smell of blood from the room over did nothing to reassure the Fledgling that all was well, and the elevator was similarly destroyed, like an elephant-sized creature had torn off and discarded the doors. 

"I have to go up." Sunday reported, anxious, "Something really bad happened here." 

They eased the door open to get a better look at the lobby, which was empty, by this point. The police had come and gone, taking photographs, leaving chalk outlines. Sunday was careful to disturb nothing as they headed across to the stairs, and Nines followed, supporting Barabus, who was beginning to walk.

"Never rains, it pours," Barabus observed, looking about, "Christ, any idea what happened here?" 

Nines evaluated the battlefield. "Looks like shovelhead work. Probably came in through the front in a wedge formation, fell on everybody there, then herded the rest to the back and picked them off slowly." 

Sunday was already three flights up the stairs, jumping like a spider-monkey from the guardrails to speed the process, while Nines and Barabus followed more slowly. Fear for LaCroix drove them on faster, and they gained LaCroix's reception room well in advance of the other two. The sarcophagus was gone, and for a moment, Sunday was relieved. Then they refocused, moving across the room to the empty desk. The curtains were drawn - big, heavy blackout ones. They crossed the room, knocked on the bedroom door, and then opened it. 

Ordinarily, they wouldn't barge in like this, but they had to know LaCroix was okay.

"Mmmf." The figure in the bed, in green silk pyjamas, was unhurt, and Sunday let out a sigh of relief. 

"My Prince. I was so worried." 

LaCroix gradually rejoined the waking world, having snatched a few precious hours of nightmare-riddled sleep. As with most people, her immediate waking logic could use refinement. "Sunday? Are you here about my email?" 

"No, I didn't get a chance to check. I'm here with Nines Rodriguez and the captured Nosferatu. He's really badly hurt - the Nosferatu, not Nines. And, I managed to convince Nines to talk to you. I mean, I guess it wasn't just me. Tung's been working on him too." 

LaCroix sat up in bed, yawning hugely, and for a moment displayed the magnificent extent of her fangs. They were delicate, of reasonable size, and just slightly curved under. Sunday stared at them, enraptured. She was so good about not showing them, most of the time, that this yawn felt like an admission of vulnerability. 

"I have no medical training, but the Nosferatu can remain here in one of my private boardrooms until he recovers. I'll have a cot brought up--" She realized Chunk was in the hospital. "I'll bring it up myself." But first, "I must dress. Have Nines wait outside." 

Sunday backed up to the door, then flashed her an encouraging grin. "I believe in you." 

LaCroix stopped midway through unbuttoning her top, revealing a fine blonde fuzz at her chest, and didn't know what to do with that information, so replied, "Yes. Thank you for this opportunity, Sunday." She seemed to want to say more, and Sunday lingered there in the doorway, inviting. 

"--The sarcophagus was stolen. Many kine in my employ died. The local Sabbat archbishop is stronger than I feared." She looked away, shrugging off her top, and Sunday blinked at the scars crisscrossing her body, then politely averted their gaze. Even if LaCroix didn't seem to value her own privacy, they didn't feel completely privileged for this level of history, yet.

"I'll protect you. From Ming Xiao, and from the Sabbat, and... anyone else." Sunday promised, suddenly. 

LaCroix didn't get a chance to respond to that mindblowing promise, hearing the outer door swing open and hit the wall. Nines and Barabus had made the top of the tower, with the Anarch carrying Barabus again for expediency. LaCroix wasn't even nearly undressed, let alone dressed in her usual suit and tie, and for a moment Nines and Sebastian simply looked at one another. 

The Ventrue was not ashamed of her scars, more seeming concerned that she wasn't presenting the dignified, put-together appearance she usually did, but Nines got to speak first.

"LaCroix, is this a bad time?" 

"Yes." 

The Anarch paused, then nodded at something invisible, turned, and exited to situate Barabus in one of the other rooms. Sunday also moved aside, closing the door while LaCroix dressed, and waiting outside for her. When she emerged, it was as she normally looked, and she didn't even remark about Barabus sprawling on the boardroom table, talons and all. Nines came back out, covered in whatever blood Barabus hadn't managed to keep inside himself, and still sporting a small bullet wound, but remarkably intact for someone who'd just assaulted a stronghold of Ming Xiao.

LaCroix squared her shoulders. "Thank you for your patience. Now, what did you want to discuss, Mr. Rodriguez?" 

"First, it's Nines." 

Sunday saw LaCroix's jaw twitch, but the Ventrue amended, with grace. "Very well. Nines." 

"Thanks. Secondly, I want to apologize." 

LaCroix's eyes widened. She schooled her expression back, fumbling for something to say, deciding to risk saying nothing at all, at present, and simply motioned with one hand for Nines to proceed. It was the only tack she could manage, even on her best night. And this, pushing through to the mid hours of the day with precious little sleep, was far from her best night. 

"I've been treating you like a dictator, and you honestly haven't been acting like one. I was... angry, I've been angry my whole life, and the Camarilla that was here before was worse than useless for us." 

"Don Sebastian Juan Dominguez." LaCroix agreed, "I have read up on him, I was not impressed, and it pleases me to find common ground with you. He was a sociopath, and a poor Prince. The Camarilla does not operate, by and large, on the hedonistic whims of pampered rulers. Nor does it attempt to control and micromanage the affairs of every Kindred."

Nines hesitated, finding the lack of petty condemnation confusing and reassuring. While this was stressful, it was also oddly purifying. "But it was shitty not to give you a chance because of him, is what I'm trying to say. And you're gonna just forgive it?" 

"I don't see why not." LaCroix returned, evenly, "Despite your aggrandizing and threats, there was never an assassination attempt. You have disrespected me in the past, but now that you have better understanding, I expect you won't in the future." 

Armando Rodriguez looked like he wasn't sure what to do without an enemy to flare up against, but he wasn't distressed, just confused that the boulder he'd tried to lift had turned out to be hollow. He visibly tried to chart two different sentences in response, discarded both, and then offered, "Why don't you tell me what you think the Camarilla is?" 

LaCroix folded her arms. "It is the best we have, at the moment. A miserable array, to be fair, but nothing in this world born of ideals is as good as those ideals. With a system of law that we can all agree upon for mutual protection, we are above the Sabbat, who seek only to leverage individual power, and the Kuei-Jin, who here appear territorially hungry beyond their bounds." 

Nines didn't ask after the Anarchs, but as it was written all over his face, LaCroix indulged.

"Ever since the Convention of Thorns, the Anarchs have been a part of the Camarilla. A part of it that works. I have known Brujah who were Princes. Who believed in changing this system from within, and improving it, as it is the only system that is anywhere near functional in its protection from within and from without. It keeps the Tremere superficially respectful. It controls the excesses of the Toreador, when it is close enough geographically to punish them. It protects the Nosferatu, and the Gangrel who are a part of it. Goodness, Nines - do you know some of the best Sheriffs in the Camarilla are Brujah? Yours is a power you can wield for a wonderful purpose, if you only choose to." 

"By joining you." It was the admission of Faust, to Mephistopheles, only in a universe where God Himself looked on and did not believe in the excesses of Hell. 

"By joining me." LaCroix confirmed. "We are no threat to you. I know my history, Nines. I seek not to repeat it. But the Camarilla cannot work when only one, or two people believe in it. Just as your grassroots movement cannot succeed without cohesion. We must pool our resources. It might surprise you to learn that I have some criticism of the Camarilla myself." 

She had said that it was 'near functional', but Nines really had no clue how the Camarilla worked. "It's a pyramid scheme? Where people sire new Kindred to carry out their schemes?" 

LaCroix's mouth worked mutely, trying to determine how to disarm that without sounding condescending. "I have never heard the Camarilla described that way." _And hope never to again._ Her expression said that to Sunday, who listened raptly. "Think on how difficult it is to raise Childer and you may discover the flaw in that logic for yourself. People sire for a variety of reasons, for the Ventrue, it is primarily because we seek new talent to lead our clan, or to help us better protect the Masquerade. We are loathe to waste the brilliance of human clay when we can mould it, but we do not sire for 'schemes' alone. That would make our population numbers quickly unmanageable, and Childer take a long time to train. I was reluctant even to take on Sunday... and I endeavored never to try to make them feel that I _was_ their Sire. I didn't have time." 

Nines faltered, as he had before when he was describing this 'pyramid scheme' concept to Sunday, when he said it _made his head hurt just thinking about it_, but this time he really did click that it was not as it had been sold. 

"I offer you again the opportunity to become my Brujah Primogen." LaCroix said, completely level and calm, "And if you dislike my rule, then you can begin a motion of no confidence against me, and see if the other Primogen agree. This is real democracy, is it not? The kind of ideal that America has always tried, and never quite reached. America is... much like the Camarilla, I think. So many small units, trying to protect themselves as individuals and further the cause of something they care for, which has been corrupt since the beginning, but which yet manages to accomplish some good." 

"Jesus. You could talk a dog down from a meat truck." 

"How ... homespun." LaCroix managed, "I take it to mean that you think I'm insincere." 

Nines shook his head, slowly, "I don't know. Not really. You don't get passionate, though. You say the right words but the feeling behind them isn't there." 

LaCroix actually exhaled through her nose. "If I may be frank. What good would screaming at you do?" 

The Anarch looked as astonished as if LaCroix had just asked what good vitae did. He lifted one hand in a half open gesture, "If you're angry." 

"I am capable of controlling most of my emotional reactions." LaCroix abruptly realized, "You think that means I don't feel them as strongly. How I wish that were so. I have been nothing but exhausted fury since Archibishop Andrei invaded my home." She remembered the mocking laughter of Ming Xiao, unspoken, a shadow between them. "No. Longer ago than that. Nines, believe me. I am as much an individual trying to make this existence work without compromising my ideals as you are. And without help, it is almost impossible. If not for Sunday as my agent..." 

She trailed away, as if she dare not fully reveal how much she relied upon the Nosferatu, but Nines and Sunday both understood the meaning well enough. 

"Think it over. Without allies, I am forced to take desperate measures that the Camarilla was never built to accommodate. Our secret society came about because we are a persecuted species, trying to protect ourselves from the threat of the human herd. As you say, it is no dictatorship, or threatening cabal, as humans understand it... I know you likely make comparisons to the Illuminati, and the Bilderbergs, and so on, but really, a Sire is best for helping Kindred stop drawing parallels to the human world when they work so poorly in ours. And you never had a Sire." 

The Brujah shifted weight onto the other leg. 

"Sit." LaCroix invited, and Nines looked to the couch. 

"I might get blood on it," He warned. 

"That's a risk I can afford to take." To Sunday, "You, please sit as well. None of us are sleeping through all of today, it seems." 

Sunday yawned at the reminder, then padded over to curl up on one of the couches, potentially prepared to doze right there unless needed. It would be better for LaCroix if she had the protection of her Sheriff and also Sunday themself. 

"No, I didn't have a Sire." Nines agreed, "At least, I don't know them. Or anything about how this all works. That's partly why I'm apologizing."

"You're not completely wrong." LaCroix returned, sitting and clasping her hands between her knees, leaning forward to take Nines' measure more earnestly. "And I must apologize for assuming your reactions to our arrival were informed ones, and responding accordingly. I wanted you to die because you were an inconvenience to me, and I did not foresee your opinion changing. But I would very much prefer if you were an ally to me. Primogen or otherwise." 

"And you're giving me the power to vote you out." Nines reiterated, as if feeling for the hidden trap and finding nothing. No Kindred was ever so baffled. 

"I would prefer if you didn't. But I will not rule an unwilling populace. The Camarilla may enforce its laws on all Kindred, but only because to do otherwise would be impossible. As it is, the Convention of Thorns states only that Anarchs must avoid violating the Masquerade, and are not subject to the rest of our laws, so whoever has told you anything else is trying to paint a very self-advantageous picture of us at the expense of the facts. Sunday's Sire was a Camarilla member. A _loyal_ member, I believe I said. If they had been an Anarch, their violation of the laws of my Domain would be much less clear cut. I would find it difficult to act. But you notice no one spoke up in the defense of that individual. My ruling was correct." 

Nines considered that, "I stopped you killing Sunday." 

"Your ruling was also correct. I want you working with me for that reason. Among others. What do you say, Nines?" 

Sunday opened one eye to watch, saw Nines' fingers twitch and then move to grasp LaCroix's hand firmly, shaking it twice. 

They heard, but did not see the smile of the Ventrue. 

"Welcome aboard, Nines Rodriguez."


	12. Power & Control

"The true Toreador curse is the inability to create without an audience." Ouija had full command of the rest of the Primogen, or at least three of them - Dev/Null, Strauss and Francis were all mutually trapped in the elevator, crawling up a hundred stories at a snail's pace. It was the unfortunate result of having arrived together, and realizing they would have to show themselves up together. 

Strauss also eyed a corner where no one stood in suspicion of Gary's presence, but said nothing as the Toreador prattled on to fill the silence, nursing his thoughts. Of course the attack on the Tower was all over the news, and while 'the Sarcophagus has been stolen' was no part of the reports, Strauss suspected it was either gone or that LaCroix had been supremely inconvenienced in defending it. In either case, he was not anticipating a warm reception. 

Ouija, oblivious, continued, "If it's art, or poetry, or even a performance, the only real relief in creation is the audience connection. The indulgence. Actually creating is worthless, it's like scratching an insect bite. Temporary relief, and then more irritation."

"I find that relatable." Strauss tried to shut Ouija down, with no effect. The impudent Elder just laughed. 

Dev/Null gave the topic far more attention than it deserved, in Strauss's opinion. "So, Toreador who target artsy recruits are passing this on. Do they realize?"

"Could do, could not. Some people genuinely think being a creator necessitates tortured genius." Ouija sighed, a shade melodramatic. Strauss could not tell if the Toreador Primogen was conscious of the contradiction or not, and was suspicious of _everything_ about Ouija, at this point. Not that he was unsuspicious of the entire Primogen cabal, at this point, because that was just good business sense.

"Facetnating." Dev/Null mused. Ouija gave ver an odd look.

Finally the elevator doors opened, and Strauss stepped out. True to his suspicions, the Nosferatu Primogen materialized nearby and also exited, but he was spared comment at the mutual awareness of police tape all over the twisted wreck of the basement elevator. No wonder Gary had to come up with them. 

"The Sabbat are really starting to be a concern." Francis said mildly, though it was no indictment of the Ventrue Prince that Strauss could detect. The Ventrue were damnedably loyal to one another - without being a hypocrite of the highest order, Strauss could admit the same was said of the Tremere, and the Nosferatu. 

"There's nothing we can do, at present. The Camarilla dangles by a thread." Strauss moved, brisk, to the door, and opened it, intending to take the young Ventrue to task for allowing the Sarcophagus to slip into the Sabbat's hands (if that had indeed occurred). But the sight of Nines Rodriguez sitting half across one of the chairs - feet kicked up as if he'd been there a while and intended to be there a while still - stopped him in his tracks. He felt Ouija bump into his back, and didn't move, expression a schooled blank that neverthless spoke volumes.

"Strauss, right?" Nines greeted without getting up, while LaCroix raised her eyebrows, noncommital. Behind the desk and nearer the window, Mercurio stood attentively, borrowed from his position in Santa Monica as LaCroix slowly bled dry of human assistance.

"That's correct." Strauss recovered, stalking into the room and alleviating the bottleneck. Gary slunk in with an intentional collision against Ouija, goading always, and knew better than to ask what was going on, quick glance verifying that the Sarcophagus was indeed missing. 

"Good evening, Rodriguez." Ouija observed, not so clever in the moment, like a flustered cat pretending a missed jump was intentional.

Dev/Null closed the door behind Francis. "--Are we supposed to know who this is? I'm conned. No. Short-fused? Nope. _Con-fused._\--seven ate nine? Ohhh..."

LaCroix folded her arms behind herself, prim and composed, for a change, observing the mental rout in the Primogen with no small degree of satisfaction. This would keep them off-balance about the loss of the Ankaran Sarcophagus for at least five minutes. Time, then, to twist the knife. 

"Thank you all for coming. This is my new Brujah Primogen, Nines Rodriguez." 

The veteran Primogen could not have telegraphed their confusion more openly, and Gary slipped most audibly, with a "What?" 

The last time Mercurio was in a room with this many Kindred, things had not been going well - it was an attack on a diner, a botched assassiation attempt. So he was trying to keep the faith now, with his hands loosely folded in front of himself, attentive to LaCroix's needs. He'd served LaCroix's sire for almost thirty years in the Camarilla in New York, among other Kindred - LaCroix's line was not the type who bloodbonded their ghouls, they considered a monthly, regimented donation from varying Ventrue and a sum of money, as well as some latitude for lavish lifestyles, was more than enough to ensure loyalty so long as the ghoul was well chosen and well treated, but Mercurio hadn't seen much of the enigmatic and distant LaCroix herself until now. He was trying not to sweat it. 

At least Sunday hadn't mentioned anything about him screwing up the Astrolite job. And with this Brujah Primogen stuff, which he guessed was going to cause a major shakeup in the power dynamics, nobody was even looking at him. 

Francis, with the least to lose, was the first to recover. "Well. My congratulations, Mr. Rodriguez. It'll be a pleasure to work with you, I'm sure, and if you have any questions about what you can expect from this position, feel free to ask me." 

"Thanks. Just be patient if I fuck up. And I'll try to do the same." Nines took Francis' hand and boldly shook it. The motion broke the ice with the rest of them, at least - sans Gary and Strauss, who shared a mutual but differently sourced silence. Strauss was incredibly irritated at the idea that the former rabble-rousing Anarch was now apparently sharing an esteemed position in the Camarilla alongside him, but he could say nothing about it. The Brujah, by the Camarilla's own rules, had a right to their own representation. 

Meanwhile Gary was irritated more by the idea that the Anarchs and Camarilla were potentially no longer at loggerheads. It would be easy to protect his own interests if and only if he felt that the Camarilla were disadvantaged. But even so... Nines and Isaac did not always see eye to eye. 

"Our second order of business is that there were _vozhd_ in the Sabbat's employ." LaCroix rounded on Gary, less severely than she felt but more severely than she wanted, "I was not informed. As a direct consequence, I have lost the sarcophagus, and now it is in Sabbat hands." 

"How was I to know the Sabbat would actually use them?" Gary asked, in what felt like a reasonable tone, but it was the wrong answer. Strauss instead of LaCroix leapt to the attack, and Nines had a brief vision of Gary like a rabbit being pursued by owl and fox simultaneously.

"_Your_ sole use to the Camarilla is in informing its leaders. I have long threatened a confidence motion against you. Now I put the threat into practice."

Nines looked baffled - this was not an American political idea, and even then, his knowledge of those was only as good as his far-distant human education could give. He had good feelings and gut instincts, though, so he listened to them and kept quiet for the moment. 

Gary scowled at Strauss, "You and what Chantry, witch? We know you're all alone here." 

"I second the motion," Ouija put in, "It's no secret I've disliked Gary since the beginning, but we can't expect the Ventrue to function if they're not being given critical information." 

"Typical." Gary turned on the Toreador Primogen, "Vapid little cretin."

Mercurio was getting nervous again. Discreetly, he took a step backward. Despite their centuries, Kindred were every bit as savage as their human counterparts, and Mercurio knew plenty about how quickly a similar human argument could devolve into violence.

"Let's keep this civil." LaCroix urged, clipped, controlled. It was harder for her to control her excitement than it was to sound calm, honestly. She'd been waiting for just such a tipping point for a long time. "Mr. Strauss, is this an official motion of no confidence, or simply a censure?" 

Strauss took a moment, but not to consider, simply to ensure his voice was controlled. He had an admirable ability, almost as good as the Ventrue - better, when LaCroix's stressors were truly on her. "I am finished gently warning Mr. Golden about his behavior. This is official." 

"I see." LaCroix said, instead of _excellent._ For Nines' benefit, but attempting to make the advice sound general, she explained, "Then it must be a majority of Primogen who believe Gary is unfit. He will then be forced to step down, and another Nosferatu elected to his place." 

"I don't want to get involved." Dev/Null admitted, briefly utterly, purposefully lucid, "I abstain." Ve was quietly stimming with a wallet chain attached to ver trouser leg, betraying deep anxiety over the proceedings. That was nothing novel - LaCroix knew for a fact that, while Malkavians often sired people they thought were mentally attuned to them, they were by far not the only Kindred who were atypical in mental health. And at this moment she was suspecting Gary was one of those Kindred.

"Fine. You know what? You don't need to worry about firing me. I quit. You can work your own catastrophes out." Gary bared his teeth, and for a second Nines felt powerful empathy, related to the feeling of internal, silent panic at the older Kindred all around passing judgment, on the frantic desire to stay safe and survive amidst backstabbing and double dealing. He even understood how Gary might feel about Isaac, having no love lost for the Baron himself. 

LaCroix watched Gary exit, feeling a powerful surge of relief that she had not had to directly tiebreak or push Gary out explicitly. She knew his bent for revenge might not discriminate, and that he was already feeling like her enemy, but if this had to happen, then it was going to happen regardless, and being a Ventrue was 80% damage control, 10% emotional control, and 10% herding cats. 

She sighed. "I will inform Tung." Thank providence for Tung, honestly. The Camarilla wouldn't be even half functioning without his help. 

"About the sarcophagus," Strauss began, as if he hadn't just instigated the coup with the Nosferatu. 

"Bear with me a moment." LaCroix defended, sitting down and typing out a quick email to Tung, "I would have done this sooner if I had known. It is important we maintain all Primogen in rotation, as much as we are able." 

Nines mused to himself in the silence of the room, listening to the waterfall typing text. Some Anarchs talked about 'capes', especially the Camarilla's ones, olden days Kindred who couldn't adapt to modern technology or lifestyles; yet here was LaCroix, sending off an email as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and she'd been Embraced pre-typewriter. That couldn't be the Ventrue training alone, it had to be some flexibility in her mind and nature. 

"Now." LaCroix closed the lid of the computer, "Go on, Mr. Strauss, you have the floor."

"We must retrieve it." Strauss was not merely stating the obvious. The Tremere Regent was looking to goad the rest of them into a discussion, putting the pressure on - remarkably early, in LaCroix's opinion - for a confrontation with the Sabbat. Of course, it was not likely to be him that dealt with the fallout. 

Still, he'd push for it, and LaCroix couldn't disagree that the Sabbat having the relic was not ideal. If there were some Kindred inside, they would be destroyed and diablerized, and their power added to the Sabbat's. If not - if, worse, there was an antedivullian within... well, LaCroix doubted very much that Andrei would _fulfill his destiny_ as the Sword of Caine or whatever rot the Sabbat brainwashed themselves with. A disoriented ancient vampire with strength and thirst would fall upon him and his crew first, heedless of prophecy, and then likely proceed to be a wild Masquerade risk from then on, bringing the destructive attention of the human horde. 

If it were Ventru, though, she had a personal duty as a member of his clan to rescue him. 

"Who's 'we'?" Nines didn't get up, or even open his eyes, mild in a way LaCroix did not recognize him, when he had cursed in the theatre and when he ranted against the Camarilla in Elysium. She wasn't trying to hold these things against him, she was just... astonished at this new face of him. Something under the defensiveness that she'd taken to be simple aggression and was now recognizing as fear. A terrible fear of the power she had not even tried to wield - a lose/lose proposition. 

_Who was we,_ indeed. Even with this newfound tender alliance, she feared to let the Sheriff out of her sight for too long. Ming Xiao might be desperate or reckless enough to attempt an assassination, hoping that without the Camarilla figurehead, the Kindred would lose cohesion enough to be reduced to the easy-pickings they were a year ago. And that was no slight against Nines' combat abilities, either. The Anarchs had held the line admirably, for all that the Camarilla on the East Coast watched and waited. 

But no one was going to be keen to try an extraction against a Sabbat stronghold with confirmed _vozhd._ The Masquerade was certainly at risk, but no Kindred valued the Masquerade above their own skin, and LaCroix couldn't blame them. 

"Can I just--" Dev/Null, all four feet of ver, was trying to get the attention of the assembly. "You really don't want it." 

"Why not?" Strauss _agreed_ with that sentiment of not wanting it, but devil's advocated like a professional, because he recognized the danger of Sabbat ownership if it were mystical, while very much not desiring it to be opened or further examined. Already, Nines was trying to track people saying one thing and meaning another.

"Because, because. The one who wants it, doesn't need it." 

Nines was unnerved by the idea that Malkavians could see the future - or see into other people's thoughts, or their 'true nature' or things like that. He felt sorry for the individual members of the clan who seemed to be suffering the worse aspects of their various states of being, but he was also undeniably afraid of them.

"That's good enough for me," Ouija said, dropping the mien of frivolity for a more deadpan, serious affect. "After all, who would we send? Him?" The Toreador gestured to Mercurio. 

That was answered with a very Bronx throat clearing, as Mercurio didn't trust himself to speak and not say something highly unprofessional, like _hell no thank you, Mx. Ouija._ He'd tangled with the Sabbat once, and that was almost enough to do him in. Let someone else do it.

'Letting someone else do it' had admittedly been on LaCroix's mind, and while, as Prince, she had ultimate say on a _lot_ of matters, unless she could plausibly spin this as a Masquerade breach alone, and not a threat to all Kindred, then the Primogen could run away with the vote and block her from taking action, again. This was annoying, but not half as painful as actually losing the bargaining chip had been in the first place. While she had contemplated sending Sunny after the thing, nothing she'd seen from them thus far convinced her she wouldn't be just throwing away a very useful ally. 

Andrei might have refrained from killing her, or other Kindred here in her home, but the Tzimisce were infamously territorial, and breaking into their homes had the potential to prompt extreme violence, which she didn't think she could counter easily. 

"I have ample assistance, if the Primogen insist on recovery." LaCroix said instead, because what else could she do? Admit to being outnumbered and outgunned? From the look on Strauss' face, he interpreted that bold claim for what it was. At least he had the class not to say it. 

"Let the Sabbat keep it." Nines closed his eyes. "If it blows up in their faces, who cares?"

Dev/Null let out a quiet giggle, for no apparent reason. 

Nines' response, however, was enough for LaCroix. "I register the Malkavian, Toreador and Brujah Primogen in opposition to the recovery of the Ankaran Sarcophagus, for various reasons. As there is currently no Nosferatu Primogen," _Thank you, Strauss,_ she added in the privacy of her own head, "Then the Prince's vote could create deadlock. Mr. St. Martin, I still wish to hear your opinion before casting my vote. What is it?"

The Ventrue Primogen had been extremely, uncharacteristically quiet, perhaps thinking the occupant of the Sarcophagus deserved rescue from the Sabbat even at expense - perhaps sharing LaCroix's suspicions of their identity. "I don't know." He admitted, "There isn't enough information." 

"I see." It was possible that Francis had opinions and simply didn't wish to share them, but 'deadlock' was an ugly word to any Ventrue. Forward progress, compromise, conciliation were the lifeblood of the clan. 

It was also apparent that, despite Strauss being vehement in his opinion, he was very outnumbered. Doubtful Gary Golden would have backed him up, in any event. The Tremere had withdrawn into himself quietly during the proceedings, letting the others debate and speak as they would without interrupting - she could respect that much from him, he did have manners, even if she sensed he looked down on her for age, inexperience, lack of authoritarian judgment... whichever. 

Even with LaCroix on his side, it was two for, one uncertain and three against. And ordinarily LaCroix would be for, but she was still feeling out Nines in his position as the Brujah Primogen and she had no idea if casting a worthless vote against him would reflect badly on her. Very little advantage to admitting she wanted the Sarcophagus badly when the vote would do nothing to convince the Primogen to give it to her. 

"Then we must find other means of revenge against the Sabbat. The outrage of infiltrating my home cannot be unpunished, it will make them bolder." _They will go after you next_, she implied neatly, and watched Ouija in particular look startled and then irritated at the idea. Even an Elder was loathe to fight a _vozhd_ \- most Elders became Elders by avoiding combat as much as possible, even.

"Good evening." She dismissed, having informed them of all she wished to. Strauss and Dev/Null looked fairly glad to leave, and Ouija and Francis fell into step talking companionably. That was to be expected. Toreador and Ventrue had a fairly amicable relationship when left to their own devices, stereotypically - the Ventrue's schooled calm worked wondrous alchemy on the Toreador's mercurial moods, and the Toreador were often entertained by the subtleties of the Ventrue's dry wit, where others saw only sarcasm. Ouija was a hard one to pin down, though. 

Nines did not seem to recognize the dismissal for what it was, but he did recognize that LaCroix had not gotten what she wished. 

"I thought you'd want the sarcophagus more than anybody else here." The Brujah prompted a discussion LaCroix was loathe to have with Sunday, let alone someone with whom her alliance was still so newfound and shaky.

"Being Prince does not mean I always get what I want." She deflected, thoughtful that Nines continued to display no aggression. 

A pause, then, "But you didn't dominate anyone." 

The thought, floated so casually, filled her with horror. Some of them were perhaps indomitable, at least by her - Strauss and Ouija. She was fairly sure she was of a lower generation than Francis, and something about Dev/Null hinted the same, but she could be wrong and would not like to find out in such a way that made her an enemy of ver from then onward. But none of that was relevant. She struggled to make a worthy sentence of her feelings.

"That - is not how we do things." Realization. "Is that why you spent the whole meeting with your eyes closed?" 

"Mmm. I'm tired." Nines would neither confirm or deny. Good Ventru. How was she supposed to proceed with this? She had thought she was making progress, but if Nines envisioned the Primogen as puppets to dance on her string then she had more to unwork than she'd feared. 

"Nines. Please listen to me. Whatever you were told about the Camarilla..." 

"It was wrong, I know." Nines opened his eyes then. 

LaCroix was firm. "It was exaggerated at best. And I won't even say there aren't good reasons for some of the rumor. There _are_ Kindred who abuse their abilities over other Kindred. Power is always available to corrupt. I know you know that better than most. But if I were to exercise that kind of casual disregard for the opinions of my Primogen, they would come to realize what I was doing and then I would be removed from office. Justly. My dignitas alone... It's unthinkable, even if all my Primogen were of high enough generation to make it possible."

She didn't mean to belabor the point, but the way the Camarilla had been demonized among Anarch circles was truly astonishing to her, having spent so long within it and learning its mechanisms and what could and could not be accomplished. If the Ventrue went around Dominating everyone they didn't agree with, yes, the system would 'work' more smoothly, but it would also be a pointless aggregate of soulless automatons, shuffling mindlessly from one task to the next. It wouldn't be worth existing, even if the current system was frustrating and inefficient. There would be nothing worth defending in the Ventrue's code of honor, they would simply be the overseers of slaves, not the leaders of Kindred. 

Then, she supposed extreme disagreement often resulted in mutual radical stances from both parties. The further they were pushed, the more they feared. The Anarchs, she had guessed, were little more than power-hungry thugs themselves, who desired no accountability for their actions, so her own views of them were equally ungenerous. 

"I promise that I will never dominate you in order to force you to conform with my opinions, Nines." 

The Ventrue favored exactitude, and Nines was picking up on it. "What would you dominate me for?" 

LaCroix opened her mouth, and then closed it, and then looked off, out the window, meditatively. _To stop you killing me_ was a very good answer, but not one she felt like introducing as a concept at the moment. She had known Ventrue who would manipulate the minds of those around them if they were not of the clan in order to get to what they wished, and she had accordingly withdrawn her own esteem of them. Both subtlely, and overtly. Perhaps it was this that, in part, had seen her given the Los Angeles assignment that had proven so deadly and malicious. 

"LaCroix?" Nines asked, almost amused, "Are you thinking this over?" 

"I am debating whether the truth would cause you to trust me more, or less." LaCroix admitted. "While you may respect the spirit of the truth, its content is disturbing. The Ventrue Clan cannot help what we are able to do, we can only help what we are _willing_ to do. We recognize the responsibility for what it is." 

"So, tell me the truth." Nines was still watching her, and she didn't even have the heart to tell him there were Ventrue who did not require eye contact to manipulate the mind. She was not one of these, at least not yet. But as her powers developed, she could become so. 

Instead, she decided, "Talented Ventrue are capable of talking Kindred in frenzy down into a calm state." 

"Huh." Nines thought that over, unmoving from his position. "You think that's offensive, right?" 

"It - could be." She hazarded. She didn't want to say she wasn't fully aware of what was and wasn't offensive to Nines, and vice versa. She believed addressing a peer in the Camarilla by their first name was disrespectful, while Nines seemed to believe 'Mr. Rodriguez' was patronizing. The gap of their cultural training, both before and after their Embrace, was so wide as to make them seem almost completely foreign to one another.

Nines sat up. "I don't enjoy frenzy. It hasn't happened much. I try to keep a level head for it, and I try not to act like a piece of shit, so it feels less likely. If someone stopped me doing something I might regret when my head wasn't clear, I'd thank them for it." 

LaCroix felt relief. Preemptive, as it turned out.

"But I don't believe that is what you were thinking about." Nines finished, "And I hate to keep mistrusting you, but you have an angelic routine and I'd like if you just said what you meant, not what you thought I'd be satisfied to hear." 

"Ah." LaCroix was unaware, sincerely, of what Nines meant by _angelic routine_, perhaps he referred to her appearance. She could hardly help looking innocent and young, surely. The truth, however. "I hope you will understand I am as unsure of you as you are of me, at present. I know your loyalty is bone deep, once earned, and that is why I badly wish for you to be my ally. But I am also aware that our raising was very different, and to be too open with my thoughts may alienate you before I have a chance to explain..." 

"So you don't trust me all the way yet either." Nines interpreted, remaining calm. "Okay. That's fair. We'll both be patient. I'm just telling you, though, what you see is what you get with me. I don't lie."

_You may not think so. But everyone distorts the truth for their own gain, and those who believe themselves completely honest are most likely to delude themselves._ LaCroix curtailed that train of thought, knowing that it was not something that would result in productive discussion. In some ways, Nines was naïve. In other ways... surprisingly competent. 

"Accept my promise in the spirit which I offered it to you." LaCroix suggested, instead. "I won't domineer your opinions. I welcome your honesty. I reserve the right to defend and protect my own interests as you would expect any Kindred to do." 

Nines paused. "That's also fair." He admitted slowly, changing topics, "What are you going to do about Gary?" 

"Frankly, I can do very little about Gary." LaCroix was reminded to check her emails, though. "It is my sincere, and fervent, hope that the Nosferatu will handle their own political timebombs. He is unstable, self loathing, and very difficult to work with."

Nines had gotten that impression, from his half nod in response, even if he did sympathize, and understood he could never fully know what it was like to be Nosferatu. "Alright. --I'll see you again soon." 

It had been a constructive talk; LaCroix hoped, at least. While she was waiting for her email to come up, she waved him off with a murmured, "Good evening." 

When he was gone, Mercurio finally risked speech, and truthfully LaCroix had forgotten his presence entirely. That made him a worthy and helpful ghoul, if he was capable of listening and reporting back to other Kindred, he was almost as good as a Nosferatu. 

"He's a pretty tough nut, huh." 

LaCroix turned in her chair to evaluate Mercurio for the first time up close. He was younger than his biological age, and there was something in his face that was soft despite how much his environment had kicked him down - LaCroix was aware of his history with the Camarilla, and of his history before that with the New York mafia - nothing specific, but enough to hazard some guesses. 

"I remain optimistic." She said, simply.


	13. Nosferatu 101

It was only a few hours after Barabus' retrieval that he was well enough to leave the tower, and although LaCroix welcomed him to remain, he appeared restless enough that Sunday offered their own haven in Santa Monica. The relative anonymity of the Fledgling's home won out over the protection of the Prince's Sheriff, at least for Barabus, and he said nothing negative once they'd reached the apartment that Sunday called home. 

Rather than face a shower to wash off the crusted, unhealed blood spilled at some point during his ordeal, Barabus sank onto the bed, the still-healing wound making its way from his navel up to his throat - hideous more for what it represented than in and of itself. Sunday hovered nearby, feeling for him powerfully. 

"Is there anything I can do?" They asked, padding over to the kitchen to rummage around for blood packs. "Blood? I have one left."

"I think you did enough just pulling my backside out of the Chinatown fire." Barabus closed his eyes wearily, "Can't ask you to nursemaid me too." 

Sunday didn't skip a beat. "Tung told me that Nosferatu look out for each other." They didn't elaborate that they would have offered the same to any Kindred who wasn't actively trying to kill them. 

A wheezing laugh floated up from the couch, "Is that so? Tung's alright. You could do worse than listen to him." 

The Fledgling was very encouraged by that sentiment. They liked Tung, and they tended to like people who agreed with that assessment. LaCroix at least had referenced his help once or twice. They padded back over and crouched down on the floor next to Barabus. There was plenty they could be getting on with, but none of it was emergency related. 

"You can stay here as long as you need to. There's no rush." Sunday didn't want Barabus to feel as obligated as he seemed to. It was enough to know they may have made a friend - that had worked out very well for Nines, so far.

"Thank you. Maybe while you're here you can tell me a bit about yourself. I never saw you before, are you new to Los Angeles too?" 

Sunday nodded. "My name is Sunday Latimore. I'm actually pretty new to all of this... being a vampire, and everything. But I used to live in Hollywood. I've been working for the Camarilla for a few weeks now." 

"A few _weeks?_" Barabus repeated, half sitting up on the bed to evaluate them. "Who was your Sire?"

"Umm." Sunday fell back a few inches, nervously bruxing their claws. "I actually never got their name. And then LaCroix executed them. I'm only in my thirties, though." 

For a second, Barabus' expression was nakedly sympathetic, and then the vulnerability fell behind the veil of a sneer, "Shame. Sounds like the clan lucked out, but that's careless to do. You never know if kine are going to melt down over it. No good for us if they hate their new lives... even worse if they hate us. Hope you're over it, but you've hardly had the time." 

The older Nosferatu reflected. "You don't owe your age to anyone, by the way, it's bad manners to ask. --So who told you about me? And how'd you get the Brujah in on it?" 

The doorbell rang, curtailing Sunday's answer. "Just a sec," They stood and peeked out the spyhole, before undoing the chain and throwing the door wide. "Knox!"

"Hey, pal! How you doing?" Knox was developing into a chronic hugger, and Sunday found themself pleasantly engulfed, "Glad I got the right room. Bertram's gonna be happy; I'm getting better at finding our people. It's kinda different from bounty hunting in a few ways." 

Barabus' silver eyes looked toward the new voice, and Sunday wondered - but had been too conscientious to ask - if he really was blind. It felt too much like something that ought to be not discussed until or unless volunteered, and they really hadn't known him that long.

"You're Bertram's boy? Knox Harrington? I heard about you." Barabus introduced Knox in the traditional, polite way for a Clan obsessed with information gathering; he indicated Knox was important enough to know in advance. He mused aloud, for Sunday's benefit, "That's how to do it. Get em kine, give em blood and instruction. Let em on it a long while before you both take the jump. Our life ain't for just anyone." 

Knox was clearly conflicted about something unrelated to the process of ghouling Nosferatu, and Sunday patted one shoulder of the ostentatious vampire jacket, murmuring, "What is it?" 

"I mean, I am still answering to Knox, I probably won't change my name for a few decades at least. So, that much is true. It's just - kinda, I'm not really sure I _am_ a guy, you know? I'd like it if people would - use 'she'. I'm not sure yet what's the best way to ask for it, but Bertram says Nosferatu are pretty good about that kind of thing." 

Barabus was mild, "He's right again. But it's not just the Nosferatu, it's most widespread among the Ventrue - and the Brujah. Ironic, given how poorly they get along. --I'll remember, thank you, love." 

Knox decided she quite liked 'love', especially in light of the news that multiple clans had higher populations of queer Kindred. Then she remembered, lifting a small cooler. "Master Bertram said you'd probably be running out of blood soon, so I bought you some. I know a guy who does blood drives and, aw man. He actually pays people for their donations. He's not **aware** of us - not a ghoul or anything. I think I've got him half convinced I'm in with some back alley doctors. Anyway." Knox finished gushing, passing the cooler over to Sunday, and then approaching Barabus with a respect that incorporated friendliness and caution in equal measure. "...Besides Master Bertram and Sunday, you're the first Nosferatu I've met." 

This confused Barabus somewhat, and Sunday could see his mind working to put the pieces together, without asking. "Nice to meet you, then. You work for Bertram long?" 

"Yeah, a while now. Maybe six months since he first appeared! I'm still kinda blown away by the whole thing though; I mean, it's great! And I'm learning a lot from him, even if I don't talk to anyone else much." 

Sunday busied themself with putting the blood away while Barabus internally poked that concept like a sore tooth he couldn't leave alone, and Knox, still merrily chatting through his stream of consciousness, went through some paperwork in a worn backpack. 

"Anyway, I wanted to mention I did some checking up for you, too, Sunny, since you're so busy and I wasn't doing much else. Bad news though. Carson disappeared. As far as the police can see, he never made it back to his house. He's been a missing person since the day you said you rescued him." 

Sunday's blood cooled, and they felt a gnawing sense of disappointment, sadness, working through it as they looked over. "I don't understand. Gimble was nothing to do with vampires. --There was blood in the basement fridge, but... it was just human weirdness. I tasted it and everything." 

Barabus levered himself up tiredly onto one arm. "Not enough hours in the night to worry about human weirdness _and_ Kindred politics, Latimore." 

They didn't want to argue, and instead slunk over to the computer, bringing up their emails and skimming them. One from Heather talking about wanting permission to quit college and work full time as Sunday's ghoul, which Sunday navigated very carefully and urged her not to give up her actual life for them - one from Fat Larry advertising a whole new mysterious heap of 'you know what it is, I'm not putting it out there in written words and all', and one from LaCroix informing Sunday that Gary Golden had resigned from his position as Primogen. 

To this last email, Sunday responded with one sentence; 'How can I best help?' and sent it, trusting in the response being a sensible one. They also hoped Tung had been informed, but saw at a glance that Tung was in fact CC'd along with a few other emails they didn't recognize.

"Gary quit." Sunday informed the two. 

"Leapin' Christ, I wouldn't want to be LaCroix right now." Barabus returned, "Attacked, stolen from, and with Primogen drama on top - practically within the same night, too. I only came down here because I heard Tung could use some help... but I didn't realize it was as bad as it is." For some reason, he was looking at Knox when he said the last part. She looked uneasy, but didn't broach why. 

Sunday closed the laptop lid while Knox excused herself to 'go to the bathroom' and closed the door behind herself, then moved to the bed, keeping a low voice. "What is it? What's wrong with Knox?" 

If Barabus was impressed by their intuition or observation, he gave no sign, and matched Sunday's volume. "I was thinking how damn strange it is for _any_ Elder Nosferatu to have a ghoul for so long and not ever take them to the warrens. I thought before - it was just carelessness on my part, how I got caught. Now I'm wondering..." 

"There's no sense speculating." Sunday soothed, "Just rest for now. When you feel better we can figure it out."

Sunday nursed a suspicion that Bertram had sent Knox up to see them - not only to give them blood in order to replenish from the Chinatown excursion, but also to potentially bond with a Nosferatu away from Gary's oversight. With this suspicion in mind, they indicated they were going out, and gave Knox the run of their apartment. 

"Your cold tap doesn't work," Knox indicated, "I could maybe get somebody to fix it for you?" 

"I'd appreciate it. I always saw this place as kind of temporary." Sunday wasn't sure what the non-temporary place would be - ideally, the Nos Warrens? - and looked to Barabus, "I'll be back soon." 

The chill night of Santa Monica embraced Sunday with the same unassuming air it always did, and they enjoyed the walk. Slowing past Mercurio's place, but of course he was pulling overtime in the Tower, and unavailable to chat with. Carson's apartment had police tape festooning the entrance, and Sunday actually didn't have plans to investigate further... until they saw the limousine parked outside Gimble's basement building. 

Half a dozen unrelated thoughts passed through Sunday's mind, most prominently that there should be no reason for anyone not-a-cop to be in that building, this late at night. They drew on invisibility and moved closer. The limo had a driver, though the windows were too tinted to make out much detail, and the engine purred in anticipation of a quick getaway. The Fledgling headed down the stairs two at a time. 

The door was ajar, and within, the second backroom door swung wide and inviting. For the third time, Sunday entered, but this time the sound of voices came to them immediately. 

"--having the degree of resources that you do, err, I don't see that you can afford to waste a place like this. I have signed a two year lease."

That was Gimble's voice, and Sunday recognized it at once. Merry, jovial, pleasant - not in the least bit dislikeable. That had made Sunday's following encounter with the prostheticist even more disappointing. The second voice, deep, husky, Eastern European, they didn't recognize at all. 

"I would sooner have no surprises waiting, if the humans investigate. With the clay provided, it is simple enough to fake your death. And we do not need the building in Santa Monica so very badly." 

The voice was... gentle. Surprisingly so, as if explaining something the listener ought to already know, but without any reproach. Sunday had suspected Gimble wasn't all right mentally, if only because the murder-kidnapping, and its potential consequences, didn't seem to actually have clicked - then, or now. 

As they got closer, they made out Gimble in the small caged-in office, and then - stopped dead to stare at the second speaker.

To describe his appearance as an 'alien beauty' was as good as Sunday could do, given the circumstances. The elegant sweep of his head, almost a frill terminating in small sharp spines, the greenish color of his skin, the alertness of his gaze and almost aristocratic outfit all combined to offer Sunday an immediate glimpse into the mind of someone who was beyond human petty failings. 

Knowing the Kindred world, he had his own, vampiric failings, but so many of them did, and Sunday found it legitimately hard to tear their gaze away from the angelic monster. When they did, they recognized the figure on the floor - a corpse - was some kind of flesh replica of Gimble, with the trigger finger missing...? Even as Sunday tried to wrap their mind around that, Gimble moved obliviously past them and to the door with an armful of records and other important tools, and the alien Kindred struck a match and dropped it on the corpse. It went up with the vigor of something set alight with accelerants, and the green-tinted vampire looked away from it and moved toward the door. 

It was then that Sunday realized the whole place had been primed to ignite. Mildly repulsed by the caressing flame, they moved backward and then exited around the two into the cool night again. The limousine door stood open, waiting. 

The magnificent, strange Kindred paused, looking like someone who'd forgotten something, as Gimble put the tools into the trunk of the car. 

Sunday gave it a few moments of thought, then let go the obfuscation. 

"Hi. I just want to talk."

"Oh!" Gimble reacted first, "Andrei! It's them. The one who put me in the morgue."

To his credit, the strange Kindred - Andrei - just looked to Sunday to poll them for their take. 

"I panicked, I wasn't expecting Gimble to come out - armed." Sunday was gratified that even Gimble laughed, involuntarily appreciative, "I am sorry about that. I'm glad I didn't kill you. I'm ...sure it was some kind of big weird misunderstanding."

"As a matter of fact," Gimble began, but Andrei waved the surgeon to silence. 

"We cannot discuss this here. Come with us, young Cainite. We can talk more. Or, content yourself with the possibility that our paths may cross in future, at a later date." 

Sunday looked to the limousine, then to the curling black smoke up the basement stairs, understanding why the need for speed and discretion. Andrei read something in the worried look of their face, and prompted, "If the fire concerns you, my people have already reported it. All I need is for the body to be superficially unrecognizable." 

_These people killed Carson._ Sunday supposed, but nodded, and at Andrei's gesture, climbed into the limo alongside them. The driver took off as soon as all three were in the car, and for Sunday's first limo ride, it was memorable. The inside of the car was smaller and more cramped than they'd envisioned when they saw vehicles like this on TV, for weddings, and so on, but Andrei didn't seem to mind the close quarters - he wrapped a companionable arm around Gimble's shoulders, and the prostheticist didn't seem to object in the least. 

"I am Archbishop of the Sabbat; Andrei Veselko. This is my ghoul, Stanley Gimble, who I take that you have already met." Andrei had an understated mischief about that studied calm, someone who was either fully in control of all eventualities, or who believed he was prepared enough to give that illusion freely. 

"Sunday Latimore." It was surreal, but not more so than anything else they'd done in the last month. "The Sabbat, you said?" 

"I know about the warehouse." Andrei cut through the chaff of the question without rudeness. "I understand that you are principally allied with the Camarilla," He rolled the R of the Camarilla very lustily, as if he couldn't get enough of the word, "And therefore you and I are naturally enemies. But it does not have to be so." 

Sunday, despite themself, relaxed slightly. "Good. So you and -- Gimble?" 

"Let us say... I have an agent in Santa Monica's hospital who informs me of the interesting goings-on there. You certainly very nearly killed her; the human cattle believed she was dead. Meanwhile, I was interested enough to set some time aside to repair the damage, and even improve upon her, in time. Besides, I have need of a human face." 

He said 'her' very casually, so much so that Sunday almost missed it, but nodded when they realized what Andrei meant. "So what are you? What, clan, I mean. Archbishop?" 

Something about their groping questions, their straightforward innocence, Andrei appeared charmed by. Perhaps it was also how quickly they consented to get into the car, to give themself this vulnerability. Sunday recognized, from a glimpse out of the window, the lay of the land was Hollywood, where they'd grown up in life. It felt like forever ago, despite only being a month, it was another world entirely. They'd barely even thought about their old life.

"There are but two clans capable of wearing the truth of our inhumanity on the outside. One, yours, the Nosferatu, generates forms I find beautiful, but unrefined. Unpolished. Your skeletal structure is magnificent, the flesh upon it drapes... compellingly, but it is so natural, like a piece of wood, with a unique grain, longing to be worked and varnished." 

Andrei paused, and Sunday looked - somewhat curious. It was not the expression Andrei had been looking for, but whatever he saw there still satisfied him, and he continued, "And mine is the Clan Tzimisce. We have vicissitude; we can reshape the flesh to our whim and liking." 

Sunday was astonished. "That's incredible." 

There was another, pregnant silence in which Sunday seemed to subvert another unspoken expectation, and then Andrei smiled, giving all the appearance of a benign, emotionally open creature. "It is a simple skill to learn. But it takes lifetimes to master. Regrettably, Sabbath Childe, we are not so close in trust as for me to offer you hospitality in my home, nor even, yet, its location. I must drop you off - where would you like to be taken?" 

"Oh, uhm." Sunday glanced out the window, recognizing the local bars and motels as they passed, "Anywhere along here is fine. I can find my own way." 

The limo pulled off to the shoulder, and Sunday sat for a second more, pondering. "Thank you for the talk. I hope I get a chance to negotiate peace with you and the Camarilla at some point. And, I'm sorry for almost killing you, Gimble. Please stay out of trouble." 

"Shan't," Gimble returned, as Sunday stepped out and closed the door behind themself. 

The limo's taillights faded into the distance, leaving Sunday with an unusual feeling; something had happened between the lines that they couldn't read or account for, but it was... somehow still a positive interaction. They hoped this Tzimisce would help curb Gimble's impulsive urges, maybe. A good regnant might be exactly what she needed...? 

They repeated the license plate number to themself a few times, and then pondered a next step. It was only six miles from Hollywood to Chinatown, and the hunter they'd promised to help weighed on them along with everything else; the missing sarcophagus, Heather, the Primogen quitting - Chunk was still in the hospital... The Vozhd! 

What Tung had said in the sewers came back to them, along with the realization - the _Clan Tzimisce_. Those enormous creatures belonged to Andrei. Killing them might have unforeseen consequences for a potential truce, but neither could Sunday in good conscience let them keep roaming around down there, potentially harming humans or being seen by them. The Vozhd felt like the most pressing problem, at least from their perspective, and being in Hollywood made it the most convenient, too. 

Sunday took a break from ruminating to call back to their apartment and inform Knox, who answered the phone pleasantly. Knox seemed to like being around Nosferatu, or at any rate the ones she'd been directly introduced to, and it made Sunday's worried heart a bit lighter. Things might work out after all. 

They lifted a manhole cover, and slipped below into the darkness.


	14. Indirect Pressure

Tung had been staving off the inevitable for as long as possible, but when he entered the Warrens and heard the sound of shattering glass, wondered if he'd waited **too** long.

"It's a joke! It's all a sick joke! The 'Brujah Primogen' was up for Grout's _fucking bloodhunt_ less than a week ago! And that smug prick LaCroix and her little lapdog Nosferatu - I could kill them!" 

_Doubtful_, Tung thought, opening the main door silently, having decided Sunday's offhand comment about killing a Nagaraja was _not_ a humblebrag, "Gary." 

Gary Golden looked up wild-eyed from the smoking wreck of a computer monitor, not any more pleased to see Tung than he ordinarily was. He was not, by Tung's estimate, fully frenzied, but for someone who practiced little compassion and fed his self loathing with the suffering of others, the metaphorical beast was close. "What the fuck do you want?" 

Tung let the anger wash over him, registering it, but detached from it. "We need to talk about the open Primogen seat. It's actually a good thing you quit, rather than being voted out." 

Expecting an argument, or censure, Gary floundered visibly for a second, before composing himself to some degree. "I should have never bothered with it in the first place." 

"I agree with that too." Tung said levelly, "But the Warren does need representation of some kind. Even though you stepped down, you still get to vote for who should replace you." 

Gary's mouth worked silently, lower jaw tensing. He'd struggled with this - the game of politics. He'd been force Embraced too, and for terrible reasons, he had more in common with Isaac's Childe, but he and Isaac had a lot of mutual animosity that had been in place before Tung had arrived and found them set like concrete against one another - and against the world. 

Tung found himself again reflecting on this - Neonate Primogen. How LaCroix had accepted him, how the Prince had no provision officially to deny the 'Nosferatu choice', but how she could well have attempted to poison at least Strauss against him, and had instead made a good faith effort to trust his intel. While Gary frantically played the part of the backstabbing, genius Elder, with hardly an eyeblink of experience in the same, and about as much success.

The Nosferatu hacker, Mitnick, was cowering nearby and trying not to draw attention to himself, but he was well in Tung's calculations already. Gary could offer either Mitnick or Imalia to replace him, instruct the other to vote for the one, and himself, and still have the majority... Only Knox's Embrace could tiebreak, and Tung still badly wanted _not_ to be rushed on that point. All he really needed was more than 50%, it was just a shame that Gary had two Childer who'd vote along with him. 

Funny, too. For a system the local Anarchs insisted was so tyrannical, a whole lot of it came back to direct democracy, but it wasn't the Camarilla that gave Gary his Childer. LaCroix had sense enough to frown on it, and even greater sense to leave it be. 

But Gary _had_ left, stormed out in a fit of panic - or pique - and Tung wasn't sure he cared to keep puppeting from behind the scenes. Tung had invited Barabus down specifically to have someone to take over, but he hadn't anticipated the other Nosferatu Elder being so shaky out of his element in America. He'd gotten caught, not anticipated Gary would be a problem. Tung couldn't blame him for not seeing a knife in the back from a Nosferatu, but it meant if he wanted this job done he was going to have to do it himself. 

"I elect myself." Tung said, remaining as calm as the grave. "You're free to do what you like. Even if you break from the Camarilla entirely, I respect your right to. I'm sorry it's come to this." 

"You're sorry?" Gary repeated, incredulous. "You're hardly even down here with the rest of us - and you're - sorry? Don't pity me, if that's what you're doing, boss." 

"I'm not." Tung had sympathy, but he wouldn't call it pity. He felt around for the appropriate response, without flat-out asking for Gary to vote away his responsibility, "I'll represent Nosferatu interests to the best of my ability." 

Gary scowled, but the fire in his eyes was banking; he was losing the energy the longer Tung drew it out and didn't stoke it. 

"Do what you want." Gary concluded. "It's not my concern; I don't care. Hollywood doesn't even belong to the Camarilla." 

_Hollywood barely belongs to Isaac, either_. Tung supposed it was fair, though. Gary didn't care who owned what. He stayed down here, digging up corpses, watching faded, flickering VHS tapes of his human life, keeping movie posters framed on the walls. He was a mess, and he didn't even seem to know how to hide the wounds. 

"I vote for you, Bertram." Mitnick said, and even the whisper, furtive and careful, was loud in the sudden silence. It was like sacrilege. 

Tung didn't answer, but he did attempt to make the motion to keep himself between Sire and Childe look more natural than purposeful. "Thanks, Fledgling." Mitnick was five years old if he was a day, and Tung could see in the semidarkness that he was shaking with terror in every limb at even this small rebellion. 

A low, rippling growl, something decidedly inhuman, from Gary's quarter, but he didn't pursue - he didn't want to fight Tung, he understood that much. Tung had left it ambiguous whether or not he would kill in defense, but Gary evaluated him based on personal inclination. 

"I'll be in my room. Don't disturb me." Gary left, with no indication that he was going to vote for, or against, the Elder. 

Tung was cautiously pleased, if pleasure could be had from this circumstance. He really didn't want the Primogen seat - all this leadership garbage was a righteous pain, and unrewarding, it taxed the very life from any Kindred who did it. The main reason the Ventrue were begrudgingly tolerated was that even at their worst, other clans had to admit that _nobody else wanted the job._

Oh well. What was a year, more or less? He could spend that much, trying to shore this structure up a bit. Not for the sake of the leadership back in New York who sent Princes down to this deathtrap for a win/win - to get rid of inconvenient political opponents, or to reclaim territory from the Kuei-Jin... It was plain that the Anarchs so far couldn't hold it alone. Tung's interest was also in blocking the Kuei-Jin as much as possible, but at this moment it felt incidental. The situation in the Warrens was worse.

"Sunny was right, you know. We really need to stop only thinking about ourselves as individuals." Tung mused aloud, to Mitnick, "It's a formality, I'm pretty sure. But I should collect the others and ask how they'll vote. Can you get Imalia's take for me?"

"Sure thing." Mitnick kept his voice down, remaining similarly low to the ground, submissive in tone and posture. 

"I'd avoid Gary for a while, too." Tung reflected, "It'll improve." 

He left Mitnick with only slight reservations about the fledgling's safety, but he actually doubted there would be any trouble. He took a third, discreet passage exit and swung round to pay Romero the latter half of his promised vigilance money. He didn't know it, but it was about to prove itself well spent.

"I do have a tip." Romero shared it in quiet confidence, "You know Isaac's Childe?" 

Tung purred, "Everybody knows Ash Rivers by now, Romero. The media, the humans." 

"Yup. That's the problem. Apparently Ash disappeared from his club, two nights ago. I would've told you sooner, but, you're a hard guy to get hold of." 

The self assured amusement faded damn quick. "What do you mean, disappeared? Why didn't Isaac contact LaCroix?" 

Romero headed over to put his money away, hastily, like he thought Tung might try to renege. "The way I heard it, it was a black van job. Hunters." 

Tung was already turning away, tossing back a distracted, "Thanks." 

Of course he knew where to find Isaac, and it was only his hard-won Elder's patience that stopped him kicking the door in. As it was, he didn't bother knocking. He didn't give a blunt bite for the way Isaac looked at him - he'd been treated worse by better Kindred. The back of the jewelry store was discreet enough to be himself, and Isaac's views on Nosferatu appearances came as no surprise.

"When were you planning to tell the Camarilla about Ash's kidnapping?" Tung didn't mince words.

"I'll thank you to show me the proper respect," Isaac returned, archly, "But if you really want to know, I wasn't. My Childe is my business."

"Hmn. Except that Ash can name names if they torture him enough. It was a very unwise move to let it get this bad, Isaac. This is what the Masquerade is for, and he was your responsibility." 

The Toreador looked irritated; not furious, not even worried. Certainly not guilty. A part of him seemed to be filtering a rose-tinted overlay onto the proceedings, "He won't betray anyone. He's a good person. And I did all I could for him, saving his life... setting him up with that club..." 

Tung nodded, not at anything in particular, just to himself. "I was trying to stay neutral about you. I didn't like your petty dickheaded attitude toward Nosferatu, but it's your right to have opinions, and I could still work with you. Therese doesn't much like us either. But abandoning your Childe and not being big enough to ask LaCroix for help? You enjoy Hollywood while you can. I'm bouncing you out of here as soon as I can find a spare minute." 

"Is that your official stance as Camarilla representative?" Isaac looked - incredibly - excited to have a pretext for disagreement.

"It's my official stance as a Nosferatu." Tung left.

He kept to the back streets, waiting for the acute anger to simmer down and bank itself into more useful energy, and knew he could wander Isaac's territory with impunity, but he hated that it had gotten this bad. Hunters everywhere, both close and discreet. That, more than anything, made him quit the streets, climbing up in through a window of the Vesuvius strip club and feeling more at ease with closed walls around him, and the pulse of the music from ceiling speakers under the carpet. This was a storeroom, with unglamorous filing cabinets, spare computers, cleaning supplies, and a small washing machine and dryer combo tucked in the corner. He took out a cellphone and called Knox, filling her in on the extra information gleaned about Ash and the Primogen seat. From her, he learned that Sunday was somewhere in Hollywood, but not their reasoning or mission. 

"Can you ask Barabus if he'll cast a vote for me?" Bertram crept to the window to look out onto the street. There were two people in plainclothes not far from the Vesuvius, but from their clothes and alert behavior, he suspected they were hunters. Still here, even after Ash had been captured? This was worse than he thought. They'd tasted blood and they were hungrier. 

And Sunday was here. And the _Vozhd,_ damn. All the hunters would need do --if they were desperate or wicked enough--would be to lure one of the Tzimisce's abominations to the surface, and it would be a five alarm Masquerade breach with potentially massive human casualty as icing on the cake. It would be comparatively easy to discredit the monsters as special effects, if footage leaked, but even the Nosferatu couldn't scrub something completely once it hit the internet, and he also doubted that the vozhd would be stopped by conventional police weaponry. It would just be better to handle this some other way, and quickly.

"I'll call you back." He promised, hanging up. His next step would have been to hit the sewers, and see if he could find Sunday, but the phone he just put away started to vibrate in his pocket with an incoming call. 

This was, like most of the Nosferatu phones, a burner. No one should have the number except LaCroix, and the Ventrue Prince wasn't a fan of wasting his time, so if it was her, it would be an emergency. He didn't recognize the number, though. Picking it up could be a trap, just because the hunters were bred-in-the-bone religious nuts, they did get the odd hacker and phreaker that the Nosferatu didn't turn first.

He picked up with a cautious, "Hello?" 

"Is this the Wagging Tung? I hear your service is to die for, and I'd like to make a reservation. My independently-operating fragment address is 'Dev forward-slash Null'." 

Tung's mouth worked silently, even as he kept a visual on both hunters outside. No sign this was anything to do with them. "--It's hard to make me speechless, but yes, you've got the right number." He admitted, "You must be the new Malkavian Primogen."

"I guess so. I keep pushing for teleconferences but the others keep insisting I need to meatspace _e-v-e-r-y-_thing. Sometimes it's better to be Afterthought's darling from five miles away." 

The Nosferatu took a seat on one of the washing machines, trying to parse that. It helped that he had more experience with Malkavians generally, and liked the individuals he'd known. "Alright, you think the Primogen are in danger, and you want me to help. Is that right?" 

"That's close enough for Camarilla-work." The sound of fingertips tapping on the other end, "Have I already asked you how much you support our Jester or was that a conversation I dreamed?" 

Tung laughed, "You haven't. But I'm not going to tell anyone I don't support her." 

"Why not? Other people are that rude. Other Nosferatu, in fact, are that rude." 

That was a fair point. "--Other Nosferatu might be too young to know how to play nice." 

"Ahhhh. The terrible twos." Silence for a second from Dev/Null, then, "We're getting off the beaten track. I need to boss you around before you're promoted and we're equals."

Tung clucked into the phone, reproachfully, "I'm still your Elder, I bet."

"I lose," Came the jovial reply, "It's about the box, or, actually, not even a little bit. The Archbishop has the box, but he doesn't have the locks." 

"But you don't want the box, Pandora." Tung returned, "Are you saying I should lay hands on the key just to keep the coffin shut?" 

"Maaaybe."

Tung considered it. That wouldn't keep the thing closed indefinitely. Short of slingshotting it into space, it was still going to be present to potentially 'awake Gehenna!'. Tung didn't completely buy that either, at least not what most Kindred presented as 'the Final Nights'. The Nosferatu as a whole were pretty aware of the possibility-slash-existence of their ancestor's danger, though, and Tung was no exception. The thought of any one Kindred having their hands on power - a Kindred who **wasn't** Ventrue - made him uneasy at best.

He decided, "Outside of my decisions, what happens, happens; Los Angeles isn't exactly full of mutual love right now, even if Nines is finally playing with the Camarilla. Who has the key?" 

"The one who has Nines."

Tung paused. He didn't bother to ask how Dev/Null knew it at all - that knowledge, fragmented and kaleidoscopic as it was, was surely based in the Malkavian Clan's glimpses into what Tung suspected was the collective awareness of Malkavians. Not just what they knew, specifically, but what they as a group could work out, and suggest filtered back through a sort of overmind subconscious. So it was equally useless to ask them to rephrase the information; like trying to make sense of a dream. Some things just Were. 

"I think I know who you mean." Tung said, heavily. "I really didn't want to have to get this involved. I didn't even want to force Gary off, and that's clan business..." 

"You better go." Dev/Null was oddly sympathetic. "It's about to get bad in there." 

Too late, Tung felt the keen stirring instinct of danger, and from the corner of his eye saw the hunters outside beginning to move, closer his side of the street, then gaining the building. Sudden screams from below.

"Shit."


	15. Holding Patterns

Mercurio would rather be in Santa Monica. And he hated Santa Monica. Downtown made his danger senses itch, and he hadn't survived the first thirty years of his life pre vampire blood by ignoring his instincts. But LaCroix needed him to work the building while she pulled new employees after the 'terrorist attack'. Part of that included personal security, part of it was reception. He was down at the front desk, a piece tucked under it (for all the good it would do to shoot the creeps who showed up thirsty for the red stuff, Mercurio was an advocate of making them earn his death), when the front door opened. At two or three in the morning that wasn't a great sign, and he was expecting Primogen.

But it was Chunk. He sported a pretty red and irritated looking scar, healed far more quickly over than medical science could comfortably explain, but Mercurio knew the truth, and wasn't sure how much to say. 

"Hello there!" Chunk was friendly as anything, and Mercurio even found it easy to be cheerful with people who weren't. Hobnobbing with stealth superpredators taught him the power of a smile and nod approach. 

"Somethin' I can help you with, sir?" 

"Oh! Lookit those manners. I tell ya. I look at a young fella like you and I assume--_well_sir, I assume some mighty ungenerous things, and it proves I still have a lot of growing to do." Chunk said, incongruously, "I appreciate you bein so polite and forthright." 

Mercurio felt for the way forward with the same degree of social uncertainty that most people felt when blindsided by Chunk, "Uh, it's okay, sir. I'm just a temp," And one who LaCroix would prefer not to be publicly associated with... and yet Chunk had the eyes, the bearing of a ghoul, somehow. Mercurio had no auspex and couldn't verify, but it _felt_ right to his intuition - which, like his survival instinct, he had come to heavily rely upon. 

"I'll put in a good word for you if you're lookin for employment around here. Until then I really need to go up and see Ms. LaCroix."

Mercurio calculated (on the fly) the possibility of getting his ass chewed for sending someone up without an appointment, but nobody else had been in to see her, so he hit the intercomm button. "Uh, Ma'am. One of your employees," 

"Chunk," Chunk offered, a name which Mercurio desperately hoped the Ventrue would find acceptable. 

"Chunk, here to see you." 

"Send him up." 

It was impossible to tell if LaCroix was displeased or just harried and busy. She wasn't _stressed to the Nines_ anymore, at least. Gaining the Brujah Primogen and losing a high profile Anarch enemy was a saving grace Mercurio was personally grateful for, because the better LaCroix felt, the more likely he was to be able to quietly do his job without incidents. 

LaCroix was paring her nails with single-minded intent, but she set down the ankh as Chunk entered. A calculated attempt to look unbusy and unbothered, not that Chunk was, at this point, important to mislead.

"Charles. You had six weeks of leave allotted to you." She pointed out.

"Oh! Yea. I sure did. See tho, I'm feelin much better." Chunk didn't quite indicate the wound on his neck, and similarly, LaCroix didn't quite look at it. "And I figured you'd want to see me as soon as you could." 

Something inside LaCroix, small but perpetually alert to danger, stirred uneasily. "How much of that night - before you were hospitalized - do you remember?"

She thought it best to establish, first and foremost, if any cover up would be necessary with Chunk - or whether he required extensive domination and false memory implantation. If he threatened the safety of all the city's Kindred, she was obligated to do no less. 

He took a contemplative moment, then answered, "I reckon all of it, ma'am. I feel if I were to recount the part you think is most important, it'd be not talking about what we discussed near the end there, about bein careful and not tellin anybody things they oughtn't know about, if you follow me." This was accompanied by a wink. 

"I see." She felt relief. Not that she would be spared the necessary evil of violating his memory; domination for the cause was part and parcel of the Ventrue set of responsibilities. She would not have become a Prince of her Clan without a full understanding of what was required to maintain the Masquerade.

No, it was relief for the fact that she had chosen well in interfering to save his life, and how she had done it. Giving him her blood, and banking on the judgment she had formed of his character being accurate. He had not disappointed her.

"From this point on, knowledge can only be your ally, Charles. The Kindred - our word for vampire - are fractious in this city. The ones that attacked this building a few nights ago believe in the superiority of our race over yours, and its sovereign right to openly dominate humanity; the Sabbat. I am engaged in what humans might consider a territory dispute with them. If you continue to work for me, even in the capacity of night security, your life remains in danger."   
She wanted to be clear on this point.

"'Course I still want to work for you, ma'am. I kinda already wondered what the hazard pay bonus was for. Assumed no hoodlums would want to bother with a place like this, but you never know." Chunk idled, "What's the --... Err..." 

"Please. Charles." LaCroix invited, soft, "There are no stupid questions." 

He sighed. "Okie dokie. Kinda prefer if it were stupid than rude, but here goes. Why is it you don't think --like these Sabbat fellas? Like you should be rising up against humans and all?"

LaCroix warmed to the question without any need to assemble an eloquent speech in response; this was, to her, a bullet point list that had been drummed into her by her Ventrue superiors long ago. "The logical approach, to me, is almost always the most compassionate one. To dominate the human race openly - even if we assume it is possible, because we may be destroyed in the attempt, especially with humanity's current technological level - but let us say that we could." 

She waited, invitingly, and then continued, "We would need to commit ourselves to their containment. Feeding them, sheltering them, in prisons or compounds, or what have you. Then there is the matter of keeping them from rising up; their resentment toward us would be both insatiable and justified. Rebellions and execution of rebel leaders would be a constant concern. It isn't simply a case of money, or of kindness, either... We are you. And you are us. What human-slave-turned-Kindred would not hate us, if we did not allow them the freedom to mind their own society before becoming us? No. Mortals are far better left to their own devices. They run their society, and we run ours - and ideally, never the twain should meet."

Chunk's face wrinkled. "Gee. I never thought of it like that."

"Neither, unfortunately, have the Sabbat. Their roots stretch back to the Inquisition. A combination of fury and fear motivates them; the latter keeps them at least _somewhat_ discreet, but as you saw, they have no reservations about murdering humans wholesale. The Camarilla, my people, are hardly pacifists, but we do exercise restraint and forbearance wherever possible." 

"Uh huh. I see where yer comin from there, ma'am." Chunk forged ahead cautiously, "How'd you get to becomin --whatcha are, you know? A Kindred?"

LaCroix's eyebrows rose. "I, personally, was selected. The Ventrue choose their Childer based on overall clan enrichment. Why do you ask?" 

"If it's as bad as you say, I want to help." Chunk said, reasonably. There was nothing in his manner that indicated he was joking, or failed to understand the seriousness of his request. "I want to become--" 

LaCroix ordinarily - save in times of severe stress - would _not_ curtail a person's sentence, no matter how inane she suspected the end of it might be, but in this case, she could see the writing on the wall, and moved to intercept. 

"Charles. I must deny you that request. To become Kindred is not something any but the cruelest of us bestow lightly. It is a radical, and moreover irreversible biological change; _everything_ you currently take for granted would be altered. You would no longer be able to eat or drink without special endowments, and doing so would bring you no pleasure. Daylight is anathema - the sunrise is lethal. All your old human companions would fall by the wayside, through convenience or necessity... And this is for _any_ clan. The Ventrue have decades-long post Embrace requirements to meet Camarilla standards: the agoge." 

It was meant to discourage, but she could tell from the firming of Chunk's shoulders that she had done little but set him. In some ways, he was ideal clay for the kiln of her clan. He was stubborn but not stupid, and a pragmatist with curious shades of idealism. He wanted to enforce the letter of the law while remaining conscious that its spirit ought to take priority, he was gentle. He was honest. He understood the value of politeness and the chain of command. 

"Please just keep me in mind, okay?" He said, and she was gratified that he did not pursue more strenuously than that. As if to put proof to her thoughts, his reiteration was as respectful as it was possible to be. 

"I believe you would make a good Ventrue." She admitted, "But for now I wish to keep you on retainer, as my mortal agent. My blood will strengthen your body, halt the aging process, and while you are human you are free to pursue daytime objectives that Kindred cannot. You are, in a sense, of more use to the Camarilla as a devoted mortal. If you'd like to stay, you may relieve Mercurio at the front desk. Send him up here." 

"Yes ma'am." Chunk obviously had a lot to think about, leaving while actively scratching his head over this whole mess. LaCroix could sympathize, but she knew trying to Embrace him woud only add to her difficulties at present. In direct opposition to Rodriguez' claims that the Camarilla _sired Childer to carry out their schemes_, she was pushing two centuries of age and had none. As Ventrue, they were simply too hard to train properly without a stable Domain to call one's own, and ideally one's Sire could also be present to supervise. 

As Mercurio entered, she evaluated him with a fresh, critical eye. He, too, would make a good Ventrue, but at this moment she was testing his worth as a ghoul in ways she hadn't particularly wanted to before. He'd been given to her - thrust off onto her, really - after the debacle in New York where several young Kindred had died during an attempted Sabbat diablerism. Despite Mercurio's success in both protecting the Elder and surviving, the superstitious - ungrateful - or treacherous Kindred who had assigned him wanted nothing further to do with him, citing that human police now knew his face and that he was useless as a liaison. 

To say she was unsure of Mercurio was an understatement, and the combined collective hostility of Isaac Abrams, Nines, Ming Xiao and Gary Golden - as well as Strauss' undercurrent of mistrust - had shaken her enough that she had withdrawn from all but her most reliable assistants.

"I'd like your results for the ownership of derelict buildings in the local area." She prompted. Giving him a few days for it had been cruel necessity - she was honestly afraid of what might happen if Andrei diablerized the Kindred she suspected was in that sarcophagus. 

"Right. No problem." Mercurio dug around in his coat. "A few more might trickle in, but right now we got a list about two dozen strong that meet the criteria I put on em. Not including the ones local Barons like Therese and Isaac got their eyes on already, or buildings I think would be too small to house the numbers we think the Sabbat got - not that you mentioned them, but I figured that was what this was about. Here."

She took the list and looked it over, forcing her anxiety down. Yes, that was what she had asked for, and Mercurio had been wise to anticipate her meaning in order to narrow the search further. Primarily waterfront warehouses and shuttered department store buildings, but the Hallowbrook Hotel and nearby Linda Vista Hospital were also both on the list. 

"Also durin' this deep dive, I dug up some info on a big Cold War era bomb shelter type deal, not far under Hollywood that I figure is probably where the Nosferatu live." Mercurio added casually, "It didn't make the list, but what made me sure was that I couldn't find a damn thing about it on the internet, only buried in back of some library archives about eccentric Hollywood stars." 

LaCroix _hmm'd_. If she'd known sooner, she might have been tempted to send Jawara down to put the fear of the Camarilla into Gary Golden, so perhaps it was better that this information had come to light only after he'd quit. And it might still be useful, if Gary now marked himself as an enemy of the Camarilla, but LaCroix sincerely hoped not to have to deal with that reality, if possible. 

"This is useful." She remarked, of the list, mainly, and headed into her office to scan and send the document to Sunday with a request that they investigate the various locations. By the time they'd discovered the lair of the Sabbat, it may well be too late, but this was all that could be accomplished. In a healthy domain, she'd have half a dozen Nosferatu on this job, reporting back to her - the location of the Sabbat would already be known, and waiting on her convenience for attack.

_Focus on the positive._

Like the curse that the advice was, as soon as she urged it of herself, she became aware of the news reporter's pleasant hum in the background giving way to disturbing information. 

"--olice outside the Vesuvius nightclub now in a tense standoff with a group of religious extremists vowing to 'purge the world of sin'. Several attempts have been made to contact the leader of the terrorist organization via megaphone, but, despite taking hostages, the terrorists appear to have made no demands. Witnesses say that they forced entry via the front door and are _heavily_ armed, but there are no reports yet of gunfire or other violence. Hostage negotiators from downtown Los Angeles are en route. More on this story as it progresses. For now, we'll go to our correspondent in the field, Alice Hodgeson." 

Sebastian's knuckles against the chair arms were white, and the centuries-old wood threatened to give under superior Kindred strength. She reached for the phone, knowing that the Vesuvius was the business of the Baron's adopted Childe, Velvet Velour. There was complicated history and interplay between Ms. Velour and LaCroix's Tremere Primogen, but beyond that, it was of vital importance that Hunters not kill or expose Kindred in a domain. 

But she couldn't make her fingers dial. Why hadn't Isaac called her? Why hadn't _anyone_ told her Hollywood was in the midst of a crisis this huge? Did he hate her that much? 

No matter how she pushed herself - _make a decision, you are Ventrue!_ \- she felt paralyzed. Fortunately only her ghoul was there to witness her drawing a complete blank for action. 

Mercurio stood in the doorway, watching the news report with folded arms, as aware as LaCroix was of how bad the situation was, and equally stymied. The Camarilla was usually less impotent than this, but mentioning that to LaCroix seemed... unwise, at this juncture. "Permission to speak freely, ma'am?" 

"Yes." LaCroix got up to turn the television down. 

"I think this is Isaac's baby, but largely by necessity. You just lost a whole bunch of security to the Sabbat, and he might take it hard if you still try to 'rescue' him." 

LaCroix didn't reply, thinking hard. The Vozhd had come up in such a way that they had _avoided_ the bulk of her better trained staff, though they had neatly wiped out the entire ground floor. She construed potential excuses for intervening that wouldn't break the Masquerade, and could find none. Of course her security detail would do what it was asked to, within reason, for the wages she was offering, but there had to be some _reason_ for Sebastian LaCroix, human entrepreneur, to care about religious extremists threatening to shoot up a strip club miles away. Her Sheriff was too dangerous to send, even in his bipedal form, he was, as most Tzimisce, barely within the confines of what constituted visibly human. 

"I'm less concerned about Isaac Abrams' feelings on the matter; if I were to intervene, at this stage, I would almost be forced to claim praxis. He cannot hold his domain, that much is obvious. --Did you give Sunday a cellphone?"

"I... did not, ma'am. But if the Fledgling's anywhere near the joint, they'll probably get mixed up in it." 

"I was hoping that _wouldn't_ be the case," LaCroix murmured, almost to herself. What Sunday had done so far was all well and good, but ambushing an entire building full of professional hunters was another story.

If she could have seen Sunday at that moment, she wouldn't have worried.


	16. Consolation Prizes

The sewers were full of the Tzimisce's abominations, but Sunday had worked steadily from the highest points of entry down, and was making fair progress in destroying them when they heard human voices from behind. Adrenaline aided Sunday's speed as they climbed into a runoff pipe and backed up, bending their superior hearing to the conversation, and hoping that they'd cleared sufficient tunnels to prevent anyone from getting hurt.

"See here, the demon has drained the rats dry. No animal would do this." 

And no one but vampire hunters would call Kindred 'demons', Sunday supposed, letting the shadows comfortably cloak them. The humans were plainly audible even with the echoes of the warrens. 

"The monsters fight one another? Why?" 

"Violence is all they know, brother. That and how best to hide among the humans." 

The first, a younger voice, was worried, "How will our companions in the club tell them apart from the humans?" 

Silence, then, "God will forgive us our mistakes." 

With an urgent ripple of obfuscation, Sunday navigated around the small gaggle and headed back to the surface. If the hunters wanted to kill Andrei's creations, more power to them, in Sunday's opinion. But if they wanted to kill humans - or Kindred - then Sunday had to stop that. Hauling themself topside, they followed the sound of sirens until they found the club in question, opting for a back door entrance and appearing in front of the hunter who stood guard there. 

Before he could cry an alarm, Sunday grabbed his throat, bounced the back of his head off the wall of the club, and dropped him limp and unresisting to the ground. They didn't check to see if they'd killed him, though they knew it was possible. This was beyond their ability to handle as a pacifist, though they deeply respected the path of nonviolence. 

Inside the club, the music was still going, but there were sobs and low talking audible, interspersed with metal clinking. Sunday's obfuscation let them get fairly close, and they recognized the chief hunter - Bach - from the burning building of Grout's. They also recognized a Kindred from their trial, whose name they didn't know, but who looked frightened and angry by turns as her human companions were, by turns, forced to hear scripture and have crosses brandished at them. 

Sunday pulled back into the hallway, dropping their discipline, and tried to think about what to do. A full frontal assault on six human hunters was doable, though it would be painful. More than absorbing bullets, though, there were several human patrons and workers who might be caught by stray gunfire, and Sunday didn't want that. 

But if they didn't hurry, the police might storm the building, and then even more innocents would be caught in the crossfire. They idled, indecisive, ultimately deciding they'd have to risk it. 

"Fledgling." A whisper, Bertram's familiar voice, obfuscated from nearby. "I wouldn't. These are tough hunters, the real deal. Not casual zombie apocalypse fans." 

"There are only six of them." Sunday reasoned, rolling easily with Bertram's presence as if they'd always expected him to potentially be nearby, "And there's a Kindred in danger in there."

"Well, yeah, but--" Tung didn't get to finish, as Sunday - galvanized by their own logic - turned the corner and threw themself headlong into combat. 

The Fledgling attacked with a baying roar designed to keep the attention of the guns away from bystanders, pouncing one of the aggressors from behind, and feeling already the dull thud of bullets against their impromptu shield as two of the quicker-to-react humans opened fire. No vests. They didn't expect to be shot by their vampiric opponents. 

Sunday twisted, kicking the body of the hunter directly into another combatant, and snatched the gun from a third, breaking it across their knee and neutralizing three of the threats within the first few seconds of battle. They had no gift of celerity, but they might well have been described as a prodigy - the gift of violence, however dubiously accepted, was theirs, and time seemed to slow as their body instinctively moved to disable or destroy. 

Was it the Beast? Was it something they would never have accessed, but always had lying dormant, if they'd never been Embraced? 

They kneed the third hunter in the face, the first bullets biting into their armor and back. Panicked screaming registered, Bach's German over the sound of gunfire, and a sniper bullet tore through the couch next to them with a deafening report. Danger, a definitive threat compared to the somewhat absorbable ones they could manage, and in the confusion they recognized the Kindred they were attempting to save guiding some of the kine to the back, guessing correctly that Sunday had cleared the exit and was now providing a very loud and very unignorable distraction.

The Nosferatu bayed again, this time with dual purpose, as both challenge and demand, and the stirrings of something from the sewer grates outside, from the bathroom pipes, from the ventilation shafts. A legion of rats poured in from every available entrance, hundreds of them, making obedient strides in tearing and biting at the hunters Sunday was not focused on, leaving only Bach himself. 

"Demon! I cast you out!" Bach cried, "Your unholy servants have no sway over one whose soul is pure!"

"Stop babbling and come pick on someone who can fight back." 

Bach cleared the distance in the room in a surprisingly fast amount of time - Sunday could almost swear he teleported, and barely ducked aside as the fist whistled by their pointed ear. Instinctively they swung up with one leg to strike back, their Beast giving input in the way that so-called _hysterical strength_ during a crisis did not spare logical assessment that such a thing was difficult, only that it should be done. The two circled one another, Bach's strikes surgical and fast, almost snakelike, and Sunday's reactions appropriately as leonine and reactive, trying to discourage closeness. 

Twice, Sunday's claws rent clothing and bit into flesh, and Bach abruptly drew a sword from somewhere in the flurry of jacket and tried to open Sunday's chest in return. A sharp backstep was all that saved them from evisceration, and their back hit the bar, hemmed in abruptly, right as the surge of distractionary rats dispersed and left two other hunters standing. 

Bach _smiled._

And then Tung was behind him, biting savagely into his neck in a manner designed to rend and tear flesh, not to delicately extract blood, and he shrieked in genuine pain and fell back, struggling to lose his new assailant. Sunday beelined for the other two hunters, dispatching them with much greater ease than they'd tangled with Bach, surprised to hear the Elder bellow, "_Go!_" in as urgent a voice as they'd ever heard. 

Tung was also the closest thing Sunday had to a sire, outside of LaCroix herself, certainly the closest companion within their own clan, and instinctively they felt the desire to obey, only trusting that Tung understood this was the best course. 

Moments later, through accident or design, the front door caved in and the sound of kine police barking orders; Sunday dispersed with what remained of the rats back into the alleyways behind the club, and Tung joined them sporting minor bullet wounds. 

"If you'd been any other clan, I would not have pulled your ass out of that mess." Tung wasn't angry, just definitive, but he could tell from Sunday's face that they understood how serious that had been, "But you're family. So you get the save. Don't do that again, okay?" 

"I'm sorry." Sunday inched toward the alley mouth, overhearing some of the human witnesses talking to reporters, abruptly alarmed that a few were mentioning _some kind of monster_, but of course they would, they saw what was happening before they escaped... 

"Tung--"

"It's alright, V.V.'s club is full of ghouls. Nobody who works in there is going to corroborate a kine story about monster rescuers." Tung leaned back against a chain link fence, "In my experience, most of them aren't going to be sure of what they saw. Some will want to forget. I don't think what you did was a danger to the Masquerade, given that Bach was about to ash a vampire in front of them anyway." 

"Are you badly hurt?" Sunday fussed quietly, but Tung shook his head 'no'. "Is there anything else we can do here?" 

"We'll let V.V. manage the human interfacing stuff. Trust me, she's charming as hell. We need to report to the Prince and see if we can do anything against the local Sabbat. Their recent victory probably emboldened them, and their Archbishop is more erratic than I hoped. You know most Tzimisce haven't bothered making _vozhd_ since the medieval ages. It's been a risk since early photography that they'd be seen and proven, and it only takes one supernatural whoopsie before humans start getting their heads around more. --C'mon, follow me. And tell me how Knox got along with Barabus on the way." 

Sunday reported that Knox gave every impression of enjoying being around other Kindred, particularly Nosferatu, and Tung punctuated with 'hmm' and 'yeah?' every so often, glad of it. 

"Knox is gonna be a great choice for the clan someday." He helped Sunday up through a manhole and both took the long way around Venture Tower to get inside, as the elevator was facing repairs. Tung wasn't sure what excuse LaCroix had offered to explain the damage, but he was relatively sure the Prince was paying enough to ensure a general lack of curiosity on the part of the repair crew. 

"You didn't want to email?" Sunday asked, non-judgmentally, as they finally reached the top of the tower. 

"Can't." Tung explained, "Some things have to be done in person for security reasons. --I wouldn't tell you this if you weren't one of us, so keep it a secret, but we're developing a ... kind of extranet, for Nosferatu, but it's still nascent. And I'm stepping up to the Primogen position, much as I hate it, so I have to announce it in the flesh. That's how Elders do it to ensure there's no imposter element. You might hear some people claim that Elders don't use technology at all, but that's obviously not true." He grinned. "I'm assuming you'd vote for me." 

"Oh--yes. Of course." Sunday was fond. 

Mercurio admitted them, as usual not flinching from their appearance, and Sunday appreciated Mercurio more and more the longer they lived unlife. He was just... kind, which was unusual from someone who'd obviously embraced violence as a spoken language and who sold weaponry with understated delight about the harm it could do. 

LaCroix was on the phone, and from the context, Sunny intuited it was in reference to the nightclub, and looked to Tung, who put a hand on the crook of their arm. When the Ventrue was finished, Tung stepped forward. "Prince. Pending a few straggler votes, I'm here to announce that I represent the Nosferatu as their Primogen." 

"Good. Another Elder can only help level the situation here." LaCroix remarked, "It's most unnatural to have so many neonates in high positions of power." 

Tung made a quiet agreeing sound, and then volunteered, "Your Fledgling here attacked the hunters in V.V.'s club. Managed to buy enough time for the cops, _and_ avoided a fullblown breach." 

"Did you?" LaCroix sounded delighted, in that rare and coveted way she sometimes did. "Sunday. You continue to impress me." 

Sunny beamed. So to speak.

"The Primogen have voted already in regards to the sarcophagus - they do not think we ought to spare Camarilla resources for its recovery." LaCroix clearly had her own ideas. "However, if you would be so kind as to discreetly check these locations for me, to determine where the Sabbat are... they _may_ have already opened it. If so, the Kindred inside may have been diablerized, and we must work from there. However, information is what I need more than anything else, so I would prefer if you did not engage - as much as revenge for my staff is desirable, right now we must focus on intel so that I can direct intelligently." 

"Okay." Sunday took the papers without complaint, folding them away in a leathery pouch after skimming them. "A few are here in downtown, I can do them tonight." 

Tung would have had to be _oblivious_ to miss the look LaCroix gave the fledgling, the pure and total gratitude that did not quite reach her mouth, that time, as she nodded. 

"Remember, time is of the essence. --But before you go, if either of you need anything further?"

"I'm good." Sunday said, with a glance at Tung, displaying some trust in him, "I'll be in touch, my Prince." 

As they left, Tung had a _lot_ to think about, but he was content letting Sunday go off to do the task alone, since LaCroix hadn't seemed to want it to be anything more risky than obfuscated observation. Knox had done that, and Knox as a young ghoul had much more limited access to the discipline. They parted amiably, and Sunday headed off through the sewers to the Linda Vista Hospital, emerging above some distance away and confident that they could check the building off their list easily. 

They had been there before, after all, killed the Nagaraja, and convinced Simon Milligan not to go to the police. If they had more time, they would have followed up on that, too, but it felt like every night there were more - and different - problems to deal with instead.

In any case, Sunday recognized the limo, license plate and all, parked outside the hospital, with a big black van attendant. The van had police lights, but Sunday was relatively sure they were fake, and entered the building with caution. A lot of the debris had been cleared away and piled in the waiting room, but most surprising was that the lights were turned on, and there were Sabbat guards standing at strategic chokepoints. Sunday had been through the building before, and found it no challenge to avoid the Sabbat, stopping when they heard Andrei's familiar voice. 

"Careful, be careful. Up on the table... Yes, like that, very good." He stood in the center of the room, arms folded behind his back, with Gimble nearby. The coveted sarcophagus sat thanks to the efforts of two small Gangrel, and the prostheticist was working at one of the machines.

"Such an elegant idea, my darling one..." Andrei observed, "If we cannot open it immediately, to at least have some sense of the nature of its contents - the identity of the slumbering threat. And you can work this X-ray machine that the kine have abandoned?" 

"Oh, absolutely." Gimble enthused, then, "But, err. According to these readouts, it isn't a person at all." 

The Tzimisce crossed in a few quick steps. "What do you mean? What is it?" 

"It's... boxes, and wires." Gimble pointed to the screen, "In fact, I think it might be something rather dreadful." 

"A bomb." Andrei realized. "Then - Prince Sebastian _allowed_ me to steal it? She has already woken the occupant?" 

Gimble steepled her fingers, flesh and prosthetic together. "Suppose... there was no occupant?" 

Sunday was grateful to hear that, lurking by the medicine cabinets in the corner, and had been about ready to say the same thing themself. There was very little chance in their mind that LaCroix would do something as cowardly as this... 

_When the jack comes out of the box._

But they suspected they knew who might. 

"The devil of the thing is that no matter how hard one tries, one usually sees a situation in the way one _wants_ to see it," Gimble was suggesting, as Andrei paced in front of the box, "And I suppose in your case, if you wanted it to be one of these ancient nasties, then it would be a disappointment for it not to be." 

"A very great disappointment." Andrei agreed, softly. "Kressida!" 

A tall vampire peered into the room, "Yes, Archbishop?" 

"The coffin has no occupant." Andrei sounded for all the world like someone sharing particularly devastating breakup news and requiring consolation.

"Oh, that's too bad." Kressida gave it willingly. "What shall we do with it instead?" 

"I don't care. The Prince has outwitted me this time... there is no one I could seek to kill with it, so dispose of it. In the ocean, to save us the trouble of defusing it." 

"_Defusing--?_ Oh." The vampire bowed, "Yes, Archbishop. It will be done." 

Andrei sat back, melancholy against the x-ray device's side, and looked down at Gimble. "Of such disappointments are the modern nights made, quite frequently, my pet." 

Gimble patted the closest taloned hand, comforting as well. "I should think we can count it a victory not to have opened the deuced thing and had our faces blown off. What a beastly idea! I can't believe we didn't think of it first." 

Sunday crept out again before they heard Andrei's response, not as concerned if LaCroix took the blame for something she hadn't done in this instance. Andrei was already well soured against the Camarilla, and this was a disappointment, as Gimble had said, not a lethal affair that had cost Andrei life, limb, or legion. They were, however, eager to report this development to the Prince, and to Tung, to see if their suspicions were shared.

Tung had, surprisingly, stuck around to see how they managed, and had noticed the same cars parked outside the abandoned hospital, listening to Sunday's summation with mild concern. "You don't say. Looks like I'm not the only one who ghouls wisely. No, a bomb isn't Sebastian's style, but I can see why he'd think it was - I was the one who came up with destroying the warehouse the way you did early on. I knew they were trafficking a lot of incindiary garbage. But this - we don't have any proof, is the problem. Malkavian insight is - rightly, in my humble opinion - not permitted as testimony. It's just too easy to twist it." 

"What if we told him that the sarcophagus was disposed of? And saw his reaction?" Sunday asked. 

"You can't kill a guy on the strength of looking disappointed in Camarilla courts, either, so it'd only cement it for you and me." Tung was even, "Tell you what, Fledgling. We'll tell the Prince everything, and I'll counsel her, as Primogen now, to let the Nosferatu wipe the grin off Smiling Jack. We _are_ nominally Camarilla, after all. So, we figure out how to remove the Brujah _rockstar_ in a way that doesn't prompt a riot, and the whole area stabilizes that much more. ...Plus, I got that funny feeling Nines is gonna be even more friendly, afterward." 

"Should I meet you somewhere?" Sunday looked - trusting, and eager, and Tung ruminated again on how incredibly unlikely their success in the world of kindred politics had been. 

"Yeah, but not tonight. You'll have just enough time to make it back to your place before sunrise, and we'll give the Sabbat a day to properly dispose of their hard-won booby trap. I'll let you know what the Prince thinks about this. And I'll try to break it easy. I think she was hoping it was gonna be Ventru in there, ready to vindicate how poorly treated she's been." Tung shook his head. "She's still a little young. It's easy to imagine all sorts of crazy things about our society's _magic items_ when you've got scraps of lore floating around..." 

"Do you believe in the same things the Sabbat does?" 

Tung pursed his lips. "Not exactly. But I'm not a hardline anti, like Beckett. There's usually some truth to most rumors, but some and most are really important. You can't believe all of what you hear, and this Ante stuff has been passed down through a dozen generations now. Maybe a tenth of it feels accurate. You stick around with us and I'll give you the dirt on why the Nosferatu believe in _our_ clan antediluvian - mostly because we keep getting attacked by him and his scruffy little devotees." 

Sunday's eyes widened, a little concerned. 

"You see why the Camarilla is our best bet, and that also explains why some of us prefer the Sabbat's direct method of opposing them." Tung said, dryly, "The Sabbat just happens to be pretty lousy at what they do, in my view. And their ideals about 'torturing humans and subjugating humanity' draws a pretty vile crowd. But the Nos who go that way tend to resent the Camarilla's official word about Gehenna. Anyway. I'll tell you more another time, why don't you go home and get to bed? You look beat."

"Thanks, Tung." 

"One more thing, fledgling..." Tung added, "If you were my Childe, I'd be proud of you. You're doing great."


	17. Shoulder Devil, Shoulder Angel

Nines dreamed.

Those were the living times, the breathing days, the hurting hours of his pre-Embrace. Hustling on the streets with the spectre of starvation behind him, the bread-lines, the shortages, wearing clothes until they were falling apart. Digging in dumpsters out behind choice food establishments, always being hungry. Often being fearful. For Nines Rodriguez, violence was just a wrong word away. 

He dreamed of the bright lights of the city skyline, and the people who took the wealth and ran while everything collapsed around them. Getting tough just to survive, trying to bluff and intimidate his way through a world of rapidly diminishing safety that was no different from the Kindred world, but a lot more overt and lawful, with a lot less reasoning behind the kine conspiracies. Power, not safety. 

These were common dreams, and, in contempt of their familiarity, held no terror for Nines, but all too often they gave way to that one specific nightmare that did. The nightmare of being jumped in a back alley, pain at his throat, and then a hunger as awful as any poverty-induced starvation he'd ever experienced. It took precedence over everything else, that hunger, it collapsed his insides. He'd never gotten a good look at his Sire, and supposed by Camarilla rules, he was Caitiff, or something. 

That night, the nightmare was the same as it always was, with the attack, the feeling of his lifeforce being drained. Pain, confusion, a struggle against muscles like iron, and then, a novel detail: the smell of cigar smoke. 

"Kid. Wake up." 

Nines opened his eyes, remembering slowly that he was in the Last Round, and recognizing Smiling Jack's voice, as rough as a roadside motel. "Mmn." 

"I brought you a drink." A beer bottle, brown, with dark, almost-black liquid inside. 

Nines sat up, still feeling the effects of the nightmare, and watching the cigar's embers in the dark, before the sixty-watt bulb invaded the shadowy privacy of the basement and lit everything up sickly flourescent.

"Thanks." Nines reached for it, instinctively. He couldn't remember the last time he'd 'hunted'. He didn't like that, didn't want to be that kind of person, but unlike Nosferatu, it was hard for him to source other blood. Lately, he was grateful for Jack's help. 

Jack sat down backwards in a chair, near the closed door - behind which Skelter, Damsel, and a few others slept. Their numbers were so reduced now that they could almost fit themselves into a city block, as Anarchs, and there was no doubt in Nines' mind that either the Kuei-Jin or the Camarilla could create an Anarch-wide extinction event with very little cost to themselves. It was mostly just that whoever won would then need to face the other group at full strength, and neither the Kuei-Jin nor the Camarilla seemed eager to start shit, in Nines' estimation. 

"We gotta talk." Jack said, and he sounded as troubled as he looked; Nines took a drink and the blood hit him with a pleasant rush, trickling down the back of his throat, so much headier than it used to be when he was loathing himself for digging into kine, for preying on the only ones he could conveniently access, the prostitutes and the homeless people who could least spare the extra strength.

Whatever blood Jack gave him was powerful, and rich. He asked no questions, because he didn’t want the truth, but he sidled around that thought in a way he often didn’t allow himself to do. 

"Yea? What's up." Nines sat with his hands on his knees, paying close attention to Jack, as the cigar smoke curled in the small space and made everything smell... like _that._ But it was easier to handle the smell and shake off the nightmare with the blood in his gullet. 

"I know you like the new fledgling, and I know you joined LaCroix's Camarilla as Brujah Primogen." Jack said, heavily. "I think you're making a big mistake, and I'm tryin'a help you. It's not about being in charge of you, but you gotta understand how this shit works." 

Nines frowned. The door opened, Skelter exiting, letting himself off upstairs without stopping to inquire what was going on. Damsel often slept late. The unwilling Anarch poster boy settled back onto his cot and bore Jack's scrutiny for a moment longer. 

"I don't think LaCroix's as bad as I thought." He said, and it sounded weak, even to him. 

"Right, but see, they don't work like the Sabbat. The Camarilla pretends to be your friend. They give you nice things, they make you feel important. Then when it's too late, you realize they used you like a goddamn tool, you know? Look, you can't be faulted for believing in somebody. You're young. Everybody likes to think the best of people." 

That was true, Nines supposed, taking another swig. His head was swimming, and he didn't seem to be getting back to alertness anytime soon. He set the bottle down beside the bed, pulling one leg up to lean an arm on it, and squinted at Jack. Trying to figure something out. 

"What should I do?" 

"Kid, I'm glad you asked." Smiling Jack's whole demeanor changed, from deathly serious to upbeat, happy, and for a second Nines had the fleeting image of ...masks, all lined up on a wall, theatre masks and carved wooden masks, a range of emotions. Something about how completely Jack discarded the grave persona for an encouraging one. He rubbed his head and tried to pay attention. 

Jack went on, "Now, you made a mistake. That's fine. Everybody does. But because you were sincere, you know, the Prince believed you. But you can play _her_ for a sap, instead. As Brujah Primogen, you got the perfect fricken opportunity to get up there alone, and assassinate her yourself."

"What?" Nines asked, feeling frustratingly slow-witted. "I don't--..."

"C'mon. You're always talking about it. Kill a few of the bigwigs so they don't get the idea they can control you, right? Kick back with some close friends. Enjoy the afterlife as much as you can with nobody breathing down your neck telling you what to do. You can stop talking and take action, really make it happen. The Anarchs look up to you, Nines." 

Hearing those same words, or close enough, to Nines' own philosophy sounded wrong somehow. Kick back with a few friends? Enjoy the afterlife? Resisting social control, well, that was honorable, at least in most cases. But the rest of it seemed discordantly selfish when contrasted with Sunday's methodology of helping as many people as possible, and trying to reconcile sects. 

"Or are you telling me you'd honestly be happier as LaCroix's pet, dancin' on her Primogen leash." Smiling Jack stood, "Now, that'd be disappointing. Why don't you think it over and tell me what ya decided, when I see you next? And make sure yer drinkin' enough, you look a little sickly." 

He left. Nines sat for several minutes, trying to get his thoughts together. He found it a better prospect than resisting Jack's suggestion about drinking the blood, but as soon as he'd physically left the room, heading upstairs, that too was easier. Jack had relocated to a corner and was talking to Skelter in low tones - Nines left the bar with a pounding headache that abated only slightly in the cool air of the night. How many decades now since he'd seen the sun? Eight? Nine? The years blurred together after a while, and so many of them fighting, initially with vigor and later with the desperation of a cornered animal.

He felt like he’d do anything to know his own mind. 

A limo pulled up next to the sidewalk, rolling down the jet-black tinted window. Nines recognized the human ghoul who attended LaCroix in the tower, but he didn't seem to be operating under any sense of urgency.

"Need a lift?" 

The ghoul was friendly, and despite (or perhaps _because of_) Jack's warning, Nines gravitated toward that feeling. "I'm not going anywhere specific." He opened the door and got in regardless, and Mercurio eased away from the curb and back onto the street. There wasn't a huge amount of traffic at two AM, but Mercurio drove cautiously, and well. 

He was probably LaCroix's chauffeur, Nines realized. "A limo. Don't you think that's a little excessive?" 

The Camarilla ghoul thought about it. Of course the Great Depression kid would take issue; Mercurio couldn't expect him not to.

"Matter of fact, I don't. They got laws about what kinda vehicles can have heavy tint. Limo's one of the most forgiving, next to ambulances and hearses. They both draw the wrong kind of attention for somebody pretending to be a bigwig executive like LaCroix." 

Nines sat back, begrudgingly satisfied. "Right. --So what's your story? Don't expect me to believe you were just in the neighborhood."

"Nah. I was comin down this way to see you, actually. Boss would never admit it, but she's got too much going on, and not enough hands. So I figured I'd take some initiative and make sure the Brujah Primogen was doin' alright." 

"I feel like shit.” Nines confessed, looking out the window. 

Mercurio didn’t answer, waiting at a red light. After a moment, he asked, "When did that start?” 

"When I was born.” Nines sounded half joking, then. 

"Oh, good. I thought you were gonna tell me you were having trouble with the other Primogen.” Mercurio kept his observations light, non-judgmental, "Just your birth and all the shit after, we can handle that.” 

Nines looked as if he wanted to laugh, biting down on the impulse. He still didn’t fully trust Mercurio. His head was swimming, and he could only just think past the fog hovering at the front of his brain. Still tired? Maybe he should’ve finished that blood. 

"I don’t need ghoul help, anyway.” Nines added, more seriously, "I prefer my allies voluntary.” It went massively against the Anarch ethos, in Nines’ view, to treat humans the way he thought ghouls were treated. 

Mercurio had the manner of a man who had just meandered into a minefield, and was now looking for a way to continue through, rather than find his way back. "I do work for the Camarilla voluntarily. I’m not bloodbonded, if that’s what you mean. My mother was a Giovanni ghoul. She got pregnant with me and despite everything the Giovanni do to ghouls, she ran. Risked retribution, went to see the Ventrue up in New York and begged them to take me."

"--What use did they have for a baby?"

"Truthfully, not much. They promised to keep an eye on me; I was raised human, no vampire influence, unless Ventrue money counts. Good school, nice neighborhood, gentrified by the Prince's Sire. When you're a kid, you don't know how lucky you are, so I started getting in trouble as a teenager. Nothing serious. Did weed, boosted a car. Cussed out the cop who picked me up later." 

Nines raised his eyebrows, probably approving, but said nothing.

"Not long after that, the Ventrue came by to straighten me out. Offered me a future, but only if I'd clean up my act. Otherwise, I wouldn't be anything to anybody."

"Did they make you feel like you owed them?"

Mercurio kept his eyes on the road. "Nah. I do feel like I owe the Cam in general, but not specific Kindred. You should have seen me when I was twenty, though. Had a great big chip on my shoulder about everything. 'Course, that was in the 60s. You do much in the 60s?"

"Just vampire shit." Nines meditated on it. How much time had been wasted keeping foreign invaders - the Sabbat as well as the Kuei-Jin - out of Anarch territory? It was a necessary evil. But it wore on him and made him heartsick in a way that he could barely remember feeling in his human years. 

No one was doing the right thing. At this point, not even him. 

"Easy to lose touch of the big picture when you're doing day to day survival." Mercurio toed the line between sympathetic and perhaps too familiar, given the circumstances. He wasn't sure Nines would appreciate the closeness, like trying to treat a lion as a housecat might yield an unpleasant result. 

"What do you really want?" Nines asked, finally, the question that had been preying on him since he got into the car.

"Just what I said. I want to make things easier on my boss. Money can't buy loyalty. Can't buy safety either, not in L.A. She wants you on sides."

"I'm Primogen. What more is there?"

To his credit, Mercurio never acted as if Nines was being intentionally obtuse. "You look at it from her POV, she's probably grateful you're playing ball at all, but real alliances, real compromises. You look out for the Brujah interest, the Anarch interest, but she knows you don't much care about the Camarilla."

"That's true." Nines allowed it. "But that's also true for Gary and that Tremere." 

"I don't know too much about what goes on behind closed doors. But I do know the Camarilla only works if the majority of people in it are working for it, not just themselves. LaCroix can't do it on her own." Mercurio rubbed his chin. "What can I do to help you?"

Nines felt so strange about that honest human gentleness, so fragile after everything, he almost cried right there and only barely kept control of his emotions. "I'm not gonna bail on your boss unless she stabs me in the back. I don't know, maybe I should tell the kid that, so they can tell her."

"Sunny?" Mercurio clarified. "I like Sunny a lot."

Nines looked out the window, with an impulse to bring up how the Camarilla was hard to support when every individual in it was so expendable, but as they slowed to let a car out of a parking lot, he saw an old man huddled in a shop doorway. The humans weren't that different. Hell, even the Anarchs, if Isaac was any representative. 

"I do too." Sunday tried hard to see situations from everyone's point of view, liked to help whoever they could. But for some reason they had chosen not just the Camarilla, firmly, but LaCroix's Camarilla. They was a big part of why Nines had reassessed the Prince. And they didn't even seem to blame the Anarch for being leery or afraid initially. 

He took a soothing but unnecessary breath. 

"Ming's pretty dangerous, but nobody knows the Kuei-Jin like I do. That's how I can help Sebastian most, right now."

Mercurio nodded. "Appreciated.” 

_What can I do to help you?_ still bounced around Nines’ skull. "How can you tell if you’re bloodbonded?” 

The ghoul looked over at Nines in profile. "I gather it involves drinkin somebody’s blood too fast to work through it, mostly. Probably more specific rules than that, but that’s why I get mine from different Ventrue and only once a month. The Cam doesn’t _want_ me lunatic-in-love, it’s bad for business.” 

"Makes sense.” 

"If you feel like you have bad blood, the best thing to do is burn it off. Use your disciplines, and replace it with different stuff you know is clean.” Mercurio offered. "One of my bosses had a Childe recently, let me help em a lot, so I was listening in and picked up a couple things. Not much, but - I figured you don’t have a Sire either, or I would’ve heard of em.” 

A mostly benign, but uncomfortable silence reigned between them, deposed by Nines pointing, "You can let me off here.”

It was nothing personal. The Brujah weren’t just subject to frenzied anger - their ‘clan weakness’ meant they were overreactive to emotions _generally_, they felt quite a good deal more acutely about everything. And sired accordingly, with human Childer who reminded them of themselves, with passion. Nines didn’t trust himself to talk about anything so vulnerable with someone who obviously really did care. 

Mercurio stopped the car, but took a moment to write his number on a piece of paper, and pressed it into Nines’ hand. "You call me if you need something - anything. Even if you just want to talk. I mean it. You’re in the Camarilla now, I take care of you. That’s my job. Take care of yourself out there.” 

Nines blinked, putting the paper mindlessly away in a pocket. Even the single word was raw; "Thanks.” 

He stood in the parking lot and watched Mercurio drive off. He could still smell cigar smoke permeating his clothes, shook his head, and for the first time in a long time, headed off in search of blooded prey.


	18. Thin Ice

Rodriguez leaned over the body of the drug runner in the alley, quiescent in the kine’s pacified, post-drunk state. The young man wasn’t dead; Nines didn’t kill if he could help it, even those considered expendable by both kine and kindred societies. But he’d burned off quite a bit of blood, and perhaps taken more than he should, playing fast and loose with the amounts to reach a clear-headed homeostasis. 

“_Mata oaidekite ureshii desu,_ Rodriguez-san.” 

The greeting came from behind him, and Nines turned to behold the young hunter who had tipped them about Ming Xiao’s bio-research operation. 

“I don’t remember giving you my name.” Nines bristled, despite Sunday’s remembered warning. Did he ever give anyone the benefit of the doubt? How many times could you kick a dog before it was justified to bite first? “Or my hunting grounds. Are you spying on me?” 

“You are very famous in your yokai society.” The hunter returned, levelly, “I can see that you rescued your friend. And you angered Ming Xiao, and have caused great unrest in Chinatown.”

She was relaxed, more than the last time Nines had seen her. She leaned back against a dumpster, and her hand was nowhere near her sword. Perhaps she was that confident, this time, but Nines had only spoken to her in brief and had no certain measure of her personality, save for the guess that she was not fond of the undead, previously living, demons, yokai, etcetera. She had been gentle with Sunday, however, so she was likely not a fanatic.

Mostly, he was glad of his ability to think less cloudily, but he still couldn’t guess at her reason for putting this much effort into tracking him down.

“I’ve been a thorn in her side, hopefully, for a lot longer than the last week.” Nines floated, “And you’re here because you want something, aren’t you. People usually are.” 

“I want only to give you a warning.” The hunter took a microcassette recorder out of one pocket, waiting for his understanding look before pressing play. 

A familiar, cultured voice in midsentence began; “--have to understand, I can give neither you, nor the Kuei-Jin as a body, a formal alliance, or official truce, at this time.” 

Nines felt color, heat, and strength ebb away from his face and core, even so soon after feeding. That was LaCroix’s voice, unmistakable in every precise syllable. It was an effort even to focus on her words. Whatever this was about worsened in intensity immediately with the following voice that Nines knew with equal certainty to be Ming Xiao’s.

“Dear Kindred. I do not need formality in these matters. I understand your people to be very slow to accept the ‘Kuei-Jin’ on equal terms with your own people. However, so long as you remain non-aggressive to us, we shall respect your territory, and I shall even help you where I can.”

“Help me how?” It was irritable, clear even over the tapedeck fuzz, as if discussing the matter aloud was distasteful.

“I would remove obstacles in your path. Help you to solidify yourself here in Los Angeles, perhaps. I know firsthand how unreasonable the Anarch sect can be.”

LaCroix’s voice was a few beats in coming, “I don’t require help in that respect.” 

Ming Xiao’s, prompt but frosted over, “Of course, disrespect is not viewed kindly by my people either. If you were to openly reject my assistance, I would understand us to be, regrettably, at war with one another. The American human beings of this city are not as respectful, or as informed, as those living from my home country. I think it may frighten them to have us revealed.” 

“It certainly would, Ms. Xiao. And I do not intend to disrespect you.” LaCroix followed on, “Please believe me. We can coexist. There is no reason for you to think otherwise. As you say, if we mutually do not aggress...” 

“That is the beginning of a beautiful partnership, Sebastian. Don’t you agree?” 

“I- ...do, indeed.” 

Yukie stopped the tape, absently tapping it against her leg. “I thought that you deserved to know who else was involved with the Kuei-Jin. I do not involve myself in the politics of yokai if I can help it.”

Nines barely heard, and did not register her words. He was staring off across a beaten-down chainlink fence, into an equally tired-looking basketball court. Behind it, like sentinels, rose the skyscrapers with their human hive’s buzzing profit margins, and he felt the surge of anger threaten to drown his reason. 

_Stupid. Stupid. How could I have been so naive? Why did I listen to a **fledgling?**_

“I’ll kill her.” 

The Brujah, burning up with self-loathing, with the reek of cigar smoke traces in his soul, left without another word. The young hunter stood for a time in the alley, unspooling the tape with delicate motions, and after discarding the whole ribboned mess in the dumpster, she allowed her flesh to re-assume the shape of the Baron of Chinatown.

For Sebastian LaCroix, the situation was finally dipping below crisis level. Receiving word of the sarcophagus having been dangerous made her glad to be rid of it, and she was making nebulous plans at that moment for how to turn on further charms with Rodriguez, funnily enough. She long suspected that the key to defanging Xiao was a strong offensive, unified with the Anarchs, but until recently, it hadn’t seemed possible.

“Uh, Mr. Rodiguez here to see you, ma’am.” Chunk, ever faithful, informing her in worried tones, and LaCroix sat up a little straighter, wary for reasons she could not place.

“On what business?” It was, perhaps, dangerous to delay the Brujah or worse, give indication that he might be denied access. Their brokered peace was still tentative, on both sides. 

The pause from Chunk spoke volumes, and told Sebastian that this was more than simple paranoia on her part. Something was very wrong. 

“He won’t say. Err, just that it’s mighty important.” 

“Let him up.” LaCroix didn’t need to look at Jawara. Her Sheriff stood at nominal attention much of the time, but the squeak of leather reassured her that the Nagloper was alert. The Prince could trust him not to overreact, and would not need convincing to step in against the Brujah Primogen, if necessary.

The one hundred story, recently-repaired elevator ride would hopefully be sufficient to cool Nines’ ardor. It had partially been designed for that exact purpose, as it was difficult to remain furious for that length of time. LaCroix resisted the impulse to stand and perhaps look nervous or unsettled.

“Mist--Nines.” The impulse to use a title, however, was not so easily controlled. She moved on from the lapse without acknowledging it. “Please sit.” 

Nines shook his head, once, leaning instead over the desk, dangerously close to alerting Jawara into physical action. Sebastian’s jaw tightened, and she deliberately drew back and stood up, instead.

“Then at least--” The Prince began.

“How long have you been working for her?” 

Sebastian froze. The perfect corpse stillness came upon her a moment before she parted her lips, calculating half a dozen failed appeals, discarding each in turn. With detached offense, she registered _’for’_, and not _’with’._

She consented to cut a wire at random, not knowing which reply would cause Nines to detonate, but being sure of the effect a too-long silence would have. “Who?” 

“You _know who._” 

Sebastian could not tell if Jawara’s presence stayed Nines’ hand, if he had control of himself, if he was at any moment poised to frenzy. At any rate she judged it close, and he had forgotten not to look at her face, into her eyes. She could save her life with that, perhaps, but lose his respect forever - more quickly than if her Tzimisce intervened.

“I must ask you to be explicit.” LaCroix rasped. 

“Ming Xiao.” 

Confirmation of her fears brought to her a certain serenity, instead of greater panic. The illusion of a thread she could follow, a lead she could guide. This was ultimately for his own good - if Ming Xiao understood the rift between these two factions, she would gladly be the axe that split the Kindred society in two. Her silence bore unexpected fruit, as Nines filled it with more information, painfully earnest in his anger. 

“The Kuei-Jin were here for five years. She showed up around the same time you did. How long were you playing me for a fool?” 

“I have at no point done so.” Sebastian pounced with gratitude on the question, keen to disarm this as quickly as possible, “I have dealt with you as honestly as possible. I have--” 

“As honestly as possible?” Nines repeated, “Jesus Christ.”

Sebastian put her hands deliberately on the table, to still telltale trembles. “How did you come by the opinion that I work for Ming Xiao?” 

“I don’t see why that matters.” Nines’ response was instinctive, and no better than a drowning spasm to pull him free of his anger, which was motivated by fear. 

“Then I shall help you see.” LaCroix tried to blunt the edge in her own voice, “If you were given this information by, shall we say Bertram Tung, then I should think something was miscommunicated between you. If you overheard it, perhaps you missed key--let me finish,” She could tell Nines was rallying to interrupt again, “And you will have your chance to speak. I promise you. I must know what you were told, and by whom. We have many enemies, and some - including the Baron of Chinatown - would benefit greatly from our mutual animosity. Ming Xiao would love to kill us all. No one knows that more acutely than you.” 

Nines got on board, albeit begrudgingly, with that logic. “A hunter played me a tape of you two getting cozy.” 

The Prince let silence speak again as she processed the angles within that information. A hunter? She was not prepared to say it was impossible, but it felt extremely unlikely. 

Nines gave her several moments more than she had anticipated, and when no explanation was forthcoming, prompted, “You’re not going to deny it? Stop trying so hard to spin things and just talk to me.” 

“I don’t believe a hunter would have any such transcript. And as I did not hear it, I cannot verify its authenticity. _However._” The longer they spoke, the more comfortable she was that no physical attack was imminent, but she understood that Nines was still... frayed. “She approached me a month ago requesting an alliance. That much is true.” 

To his credit, Nines did pause to digest the specifics, “And you said yes.” 

_Saying ‘no’ would be fatal without the Anarchs at my side, and you hated me then._ The response would need to be more careful, more shrewd, but not so much so that it felt to Nines as though the Prince was trying to ‘weasel out’ of admitting - what? Fault? This had already been brought up in the most incriminating light. LaCroix knew there would be fallout far distant even if she could convince Nines, and that was not certain. 

“You are my Brujah Primogen.” She said finally, “If you were the Anarchs’ official leader, and your enemy came to you to negotiate an alliance that spared your people from immediate threat, what would you have said?” 

“No.” Nines didn’t need time to generate a rationale. “She can’t be trusted.”

“I agree with you.” LaCroix fought the impulse to rub her temples, knowing her urge to telegraph her emotions was partially a product of her age - her sire had said she would improve, over time. “But do you mean to say you would not buy time purposefully? That you would allow her to bait you into that pretext, to war with her on her terms?” 

Nines turned away, the better to disguise his own expression, and Sebastian watched the back of his head with an urgency that surprised even her. She hadn’t realized until she stood to lose him how much she valued having Nines at her right hand. She mastered herself with a force of will, and let unspoken thoughts build between them, hoping he would see it her way, but not daring to move on until he confirmed it.

“She came to you, and offered you a raw deal, but you thought it was better to pacify her. She did sound like she was threatening you with war. You... didn’t sound enthusiastic.” Nines admitted. It was not relief, but defeat in her tone, and LaCroix’s concern grew. What was missing? What did he _want?_

“Principles are valuable in an ideal world, conviction admirable... but compromise and diplomacy are the reality.” 

“You lied to me.” Nines did not redouble his rage, but he did sound - disappointed. 

That, more than anything, inflamed her own irritation, and made it difficult for her to speak with the characteristic Ventrue composure. “I omitted. And I did so because I knew you would see me in the worst possible light. How many times do you think you could threaten my death before I began to believe you, Nines?” 

Nines didn’t respond, closing his eyes as the anger ebbed away and took much of his energy with it. He sifted through the dregs, and sighed. 

LaCroix waited, and when no further comment was forthcoming, added, “I won’t allow her massacre of the Anarchs to go unpunished. Believe me. I may, at some point, truly ally with the Kuei-Jin, but not under her governance.” 

An almost imperceptible slackening of the tension in Nines’ shoulders. “Sorry. It’s been a rough year.”

Sebastian had not been expecting to hear a mirror of her own mood, but she didn’t scorn or try to compare lots. She considered what might be the best response, whether it was further promises of revenge (or protection?), an urge to caution, an appeal to fellowship. “I understand.” Inspiration followed, “Bringing this concern to me as you did, to open a dialogue displays a level of respect for me, Nines. And for that I am grateful.” 

Nines itched his neck, embarrassed by some internal thought, or the gratitude. Mercurio’s comment about wanting Nines on sides came back to him vividly, and he shook his head, “Honestly, I was ready to believe the worst.” 

But there **was** nuance there, it wasn’t as simple as throwing Ming Xiao out and making it obvious the Camarilla was hostile, not if there was time to be bought to maneuver for a better position. Ideologies as black-and-white as that had cost the Anarchs dearly, if they could even be said to have survived as a sect with Isaac transplanting Camarilla roles by other names in Hollywood. 

“That is why I need to accustom myself to being more open with you.” Sebastian admitted, stepping around the desk and approaching him with caution, as if Nines was a wounded animal, as likely to lash out as to accept help. “If you are more comfortable, I can use Sunday as an intermediary. I’m certain they would be willing to help bridge relations between the Camarilla and the Anarchs in any way they can.” 

While she was not specifically sure of it, she was generally sure that Sunday would be on board with whatever introduced stability to Los Angeles. They shared that aim, among many things that now endeared her. 

“Have I satisfied you?” LaCroix asked, more tentatively than she had planned. 

“Yeah - just-...” Nines ran a hand through his hair, “If you want this to work, you gotta tell me what’s happening.”

LaCroix was not at all sure of that, and was still relieved that Nines didn’t appear to have put two and two together about ‘the false Rodriguez’ at Grout’s - as well as desperately thinking ahead about Strauss and what might be the best way to inform Tung while not damaging her relationship with him. At least she knew that Tung had no love for the Tremere Primogen.

“LaCroix?” 

“Hmm.” She rejoined reality, “Ah, yes. Not to worry. Information that is mine will be yours. If that’s all?” 

Nines frowned, not completely convinced, but this time (did she imagine it?) the Anarch looked more concerned for her than _by_ her. She watched him leave, only turning away when she heard the elevator doors close. 

“I don’t know how much longer we can afford to let Ming Xiao live.” LaCroix confessed to the stalwart Sheriff, “And yet I fear killing her would not be a simple matter either. She is too entrenched in her own territory, and too powerful to oppose directly.” 

She sat again, resting her chin against her hands and looking off into the distance. Then she began to compose an email to Sunday.


	19. Childer and Sires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My output on this has slowed way down lately, and I apologize for that, but I haven't given up on it. Thanks to everybody for your patience with me!

The phone receiver made a loud click as Tung returned it to its cradle, and Knox, without comment, looked to the Kindred who had become her master, mentor, and spiritual guide. Being Knox, she vibrated slightly with excitement, regardless.

Tung massaged the bony brow of his forehead. 

“Alright. What were the two things I wanted you to take away from a successful life as a Nosferatu, Knox?” 

Knox Harrington sat up straighter. “Uhm. Not in so many words, but, the first one was... The components of secrecy. Don’t rely too heavily on any disciplines, to avoid being detected I should use the skills I learned as a bounty hunter, and that way I won’t get caught out somewhere low on blood, or have a stronger vampire scent me out when I didn’t want to be found. Plan B is always a different escape route, and it’s better to leave empty handed than to let anyone know you were there.” 

Tung folded his hands behind his back. “Good. And you’re already getting pretty good at obfuscation, but cocky is the last thing our clan needs. What’s the second thing?” 

“The second thing is--are?--the components of intel. Knowledge is power, and power is survival. If you don’t know it, find it out. If you can’t find it out, try to connect the dots for what you do know, and draw a reasonable conclusion. Trust firsthand accounts only; verify everything else. Everyone is biased, but that just adds a dimension of interpersonal information - just make sure you can recognize bias. Especially in yourself.” 

“Mmm, you are brilliant.” Tung was warm, opening his hands wide from his guarded stance. “Are you ready? Last chance to back out and be sired by another clan.” 

“Bertram, I’ve never wanted anything more than this. _Please._” 

Tung leaned over his ghoul, and his fangs found the soft skin of her throat. It was a common misconception that all Nosferatu had the same agony-inducing Kiss that the Giovanni did - some Nosferatu had very ‘undesirably configured faces for the feeding process’, Tung had heard it described once by a sibling of the clan who had a sort of bony beak and consequently could not feed as other Kindred did at all. That, and sometimes when Nosferatu assaulted mortals, the look of them made the whole thing less pleasant.

But in the best case scenarios, the Nosferatu saliva, modified by the _curse of Caine_, contained the same antihemostatic compounds, the same chemicals that swept up at once to the brain from the pulsing carotid artery into the frontal cortex to flood the kine system with oxytocin. Knox had been fed from before, and knew this feeling well, moving against Tung with quiet, undulating encouragement in body, if not in voice. Tung supported her body weight and continued to feed past the levels that long experience told him were safe. 

Knox lost about a fourth of her blood before hemorrhagic shock - she mumbled something into the side of Tung’s head and he drew back, checking the wispy impulse to ignore duty and continue with pleasure. All creatures, kine and kindred, had that potential for cruelty, and it did not make its home in hedonism alone. 

“You okay?” Tung pulled back and gave her a careful once-over; she was pale, breathing shallowly, and looked on the verge of unconsciousness.

“I got it.” Knox said, a little absently, “S’good.” 

Tung’s teeth tore his own forearm, and Knox went for the red stuff instinctively - another plus to training a potential Childe as a ghoul first, they were much more likely to understand what had to be done to keep them alive and healthy. Bertram was waiting to pull Knox back, but he didn’t need to even whisper; she retreated with gory mouth and a grin. Their life-forces intermingled, shared... 

_For the life of a creature is in the blood, and I have given it to you._

Bertram had Sired before, once, in an Elder’s existence - young for their kind, but old enough to have experience. He didn’t let Knox topple as the process began, but eased her down over the couch and stayed with her as her heart wound down like an ailing mantle clock.

The Embrace was harder for Nosferatu. Doubly so for those who were Sired without any prepwork - the bones, the very cellular structure was changed, the warp and weft of human flesh unguessably flowed into their clan’s new alien physiology. A quirk of genetics? Magic? 

Tung was old enough to know that part didn’t really matter, at least not to individuals. More importantly, Knox was ready and willing, as Tung himself had been, and that should see her through the rough spots. 

Knox spasmed only once after death, otherwise the motions, the crawling flesh, was owed to the Change. Even that took only minutes; then she abruptly sat up, as if jerking free of a bad dream. 

“Whoa. _Holy shit._” 

She was breathing again - a common reflex for the newly undead, who weren’t quite aware they had no need for oxygen besides that which they used to speak. 

“You’re still safe.” Tung reassured, “You did great.” 

The Change had already overtaken Knox, slimming her skull and extending it back several inches, cetacean-like and sloping - her ears were similar to a standard Nosferatu, and her brow and cheekbones were far more prominent, giving her face a hollow, sunken look to compliment a newly jutting jaw. 

“My bite feels weird.” Knox worked her jaw a few times - cracked her neck - and then dug a finger curiously into her mouth to feel for the canines. Pretty standard Fledgling stuff; newbies loved or hated the xeno, and it looked like Knox was on the loving side, with a couple reservations. 

“You’ll get used to it in time. Important thing is, you can feed. You wouldn’t want to have to pulp up your blood in advance.” Tung knelt on the couch beside her, admiring her - with her skin marbled all through with veins and mottled ivory, yes, there was no way she’d pass as human. But she hadn’t even asked for a mirror, or demonstrated any concern that she wouldn’t be desirable to Tung now.

The Elder Nosferatu was incredibly glad he’d asked for Prince LaCroix’s permission to sire two months previous. Knox was damn good, rush job or not. 

“Speaking of blood,” Tung drew a thermos from within his coat and offered it out to her. “The change is gonna have drained all the blood you took from me. This goes without saying, but don’t accept disembodied blood from just anybody.” 

“Thanks.” Knox unscrewed the top and tipped it back, outright guzzling the warm offering with little rivulets winding their way down her jaw, over her neck, to stain into the shirt under her jacket. She didn’t stop to breathe, and only looked up bright eyed when she'd drained the flask completely.

“Take a second to digest.” Tung moved to the window, peering out, attentive to any possibilities. The Nosferatu survived by keeping a healthy alertness, and Tung in particular survived by listening hard to anyone who might have gifts - Malkavian Kindred in particular were near and dear to him, and that warning from Dev/Null was still bouncing around in his head.

The sarcophagus had been taken care of. A younger Kindred might then assume Dev/Null’s warning about needing the key wasn’t important - had been wrong, or an ill-interpreted warning from the Malkavian overmind (the jury was still out on how that worked, in Tung’s mind). But he’d had too many _aw shit_ moments from the clan to overlook something that seemed, on its face, to be straightforward.

_The Archbishop has the box, but he doesn't have the locks._

No way would a Malkavian's awareness fail to account for Andrei's disposal of the sarcophagus... 'Get the key' was still on Tung's shortlist.

“I need you and Sunday to do something for me.” He was weighing up the dangers. Ordinarily there was absolutely no way he’d consider sending _two fledglings_ on the mission in mind unless he never wanted to see them again, but Sunday was - a prodigy, frankly, and Knox had been trained as well as could be managed for this kind of trial by fire.

“Anything.” 

"Bach's still in jail." Tung noted.

"No bail for attempted murder in the first degree." Knox agreed. "Probably they could get him on domestic terrorist conspiracy if they wanted to. I doubt they would, but it depends how much they like him." 

"And there are a couple ghouls prosecuting who don't like him." Tung confirmed, still looking out the window. He looked back at his Childe, feeling a surge of protectiveness. “That means Bach’s operation is in chaos right now - leaders like him don’t delegate well, and they don’t like underlings who think for themselves. So while they’re reeling, trying to figure out how to cope, I need you to infiltrate the Society of Leopold, and rescue Ash Rivers. Can you do it?” 

Knox got up, and Tung was happy to see she wasn’t wobbly-legged at all. “Course.” She didn’t question where Tung would be or why he wasn’t coming. Her trust was as rare and precious to him as the rest of her, and he hoped he was doing the right thing. 

There was no need to urge her to stay in touch - she would need to find the building first, but once she did, Tung was sure he couldn’t be reached for easy evac if she got in trouble. She’d have to... not get into trouble.

The small pinpricks on Knox’s neck where she’d been bitten were reddish around a pale center, not pulsating the way a living victim’s would briefly display, or a ghoul’s. They would heal shortly, but they represented an inadvisable haste on Tung’s part - and a trust in Sunday Latimore that he hoped was not misplaced.

But time was of the essence. As he headed out through the sewers, he called a familiar number and listened to it ring. 

“Yello?” 

“Dev/Null. I’m gonna need a little help, if you can give it.” Tung stopped halfway up a storm-drain ladder, pausing just-so to get the best reception. 

“For the Iron Crown’s athamé, whetted nightly and sheathed in the Jester’s back? No, wait, that’s not the right universe--we’re looking for the “Everybody Lives” AU, aren’t we. Your Office Assistant is searching...” 

Tung waited, content not to understand a good fifty percent of what was said, but guessing at the rest. “You use Microsoft?” 

“You want a favor, stop insulting me.” Dev/Null came back within a few more seconds, “It’s in his beast. And you’ll get his Beast, too, if you’re not careful. So be careful. I like you.” 

“I’m always careful. And I like you too.” Tung kissed audibly into the phone and was rewarded with a delighted gasp, then hung up and pulled himself topside.

The Last Round was full of noisy carousing, as usual, the music so loud it was deafening, and perhaps a screen for would-be Nosferatu eavesdroppers who were loyal to LaCroix because they couldn’t afford the casual Masquerade blows that the Anarchs typically brushed off - Tung was describing himself, of course, and he despaired of what to make of Imalia and Mitnick. He’d signed on for a lot of extra work, though, so what was one more little mission?

Besides, he wasn’t there to eavesdrop. He found Smiling Jack’s bike easily enough, rummaging through the saddlebags and trying to put things back as he found them, but he wasn’t overly concerned with a discovery of snooping _after_ he’d vacated. What Tung didn’t want was to be caught out with his hands in Jack’s bike. 

So he kept a weather eye, where he’d ordinarily have Knox stationed as a lookout, and came up with the prize in due course. That little wooden box with ‘artifact #43’ stenciled across it. He put it away in his coat, backing up away from the bike, saw the back door open and within an eyeblink of Celerity, Jack was standing face to face with him. 

“I thought I told you I didn’t want to see your fucked up face around here, rat.” Jack sounded disconcertingly calm, almost as if he’d been expecting this possibility. Of course he used Elysium to avoid fighting, trying his best to keep away from one-on-one physical encounters. He didn’t believe in his cause enough to die for it, at any rate. The best he could do was get other people to die, but would that be enough to keep him from fighting? 

“You know my kind. We just can’t stop snooping.” Tung embraced the clan slur, finding it a welcome distraction and also finding that Smiling Jack was just kind of a racist POS in general - he didn’t disguise how he felt about Sheriff Jawara - so it wasn’t surprising. 

Jack hit him, which _did_ surprise Tung. His back caught the edge of the nearby dumpster, and the first thing that went through his mind was to escape, but there weren’t enough rats to pull Sunday’s trick. And he couldn’t obfuscate while in plain sight - that discipline involved more subtle mechanics of observation, illusions, positioning. He would have to fight at least a little, even if he wanted nothing more than to disappear into the night. 

Tung therefore took the initiative, but again by virtue of Jack’s celerity, he was nearly impossible to close with, to get a bead on before he was gone again. Tung suffered a handful of blows, running through the possibilities. For Nosferatu, fighting was sometimes unavoidable. They tried hard to keep out of the so-called Jyhad, by obfuscation and information brokering to set their enemies against one another, and to hide from their hated siblings who served their Antediluvian, but when hiding didn’t work, they depended on one another.

Thanks to the sickness in this warren, Barabus was recovering, Knox had been sent afield with the other fledgling, and Gary’s terrorized brood certainly wouldn’t be in any shape to come to his aid. 

After that, they depended on their skills in the natural world. And Los Angeles happened to have one of the largest pigeon populations in the United States, if not the largest. The birds came awake at Tung’s call, swarming - flocking from every nearby rooftop, and each individual bird was of no concern to any Kindred, even a hundred, or two hundred. There were thousands, though, and Tung broke from the combat for the sanctuary of the open drain. 

“Fuck! Fucking--!” 

The box with the key was proof that Jack was involved, though not perhaps proof that he had orchestrated the sarcophagus bomb. With all the other strikes against him, that wasn’t necessary. Tung had a mind to Redlist him simply for how persistently he tried to kill Princes. The local Anarchs didn’t really grok the difference between the Prince they killed, whose excesses and cruelties were a threat to everyone, and the Camarilla as a whole body, whose organizations, branches, and effectiveness were as wide a net as any human government. Corruption wasn’t best addressed by murder, but by the steady and relentless pressure of a majority who refused to be ignored.

That was Tung’s take, anyway. He supposed some Kindred found it more satisfying to give in to the Beast, and just kill anyone and justify it to themselves later, but from what Sunny had said, and the baby steps toward progress, there was yet reason to believe in Nines Rodriguez.

He waited, hidden in obfuscation, for roughly ten minutes, until he was satisfied Jack wasn’t coming in after him. That was one of the reasons the Nosferatu hid their numbers and their weakness as a general rule. _Tung_ knew Warren politics in LA were shot, but Jack didn’t have any way of knowing what reinforcements were down there. 

But Jack also had to know that Tung - resident Harpy, resident Nosferatu Primogen - finding that box was a bad thing for him. He’d leave before a blood hunt was called, Tung was relatively sure. He was also sure a blood hunt _would_ be called, once he presented the evidence.

One problem down. Only half a dozen to go.


End file.
